Beautiful

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She is beautiful in every ray of light. Of what shadows that may part upon the touch of pale beams from the sky, the moon seems less to her, for no radiance matches hers in the night.

In what time lends in its moments, it seems all a dream. What hands could touch through these mists that veil my sight from wakening, would almost hold her certainly in warm arms.

It is yet in these dreams I find her as well.

That there can be no dull beat within my chest when she is near.

That in the morrow there are those moments spent in Elysium. That sense that these are days wakening in better dawns than before. Awake, and seeing those lips smile and eyes upon me.

For what craft I may yield, none my script, nothing I may wrought with careful deligence can dare compare with the symmetry framed within what my eyes see.

There is no beauty that I have seen that measures to her.

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