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Not yet the tyger

Though the tiger’s coat burns bright

And though the lamb, in darkest night

Shines with eternal purity

They do not frame thy symmetry.


For no distant deeps or skies

Can match the beauty of your eyes

No precious azure, no sapphire

Stirs in my being, such desire.


And what poetry, what art

Could paint or describe every part

That makes thee lovelier than the rest?

What mountain compares to thy breast?


And what music can contain

The harmony within thy brain?

What intelligence could grasp

The way thy soul to mine doth clasp?



When the stars put on their light

And robed the heaven’s blackest night

Did they dress themselves to see

How God has blessed the day with thee?


Thou in fearful beauty stand

The milk of heaven in thy hand

No music, prose, nor poetry

Can frame thy matchless symmetry.  

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