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In my poems
Sonnet 21
 
 If I was to speak of your eyes, which are exquisite,
 I’d remarked be as a pagan, for it would not go well
 To admit your gaze makes me pay heaven a sweet visit
 Or that by the Gardens of Eden they make me dwell
 If I was to speak of your lips, in a hundred years’ time
 This poem would be ridiculed once it’s past its age
 For they would believe it to be an invention of mine
 That your sweet lips make spring’s red roses rage
 Nor the sun rays nor the moon beam can convey
 How beautiful you are, more than anything on earth
 And even though they’d not believe every word I say
 Every poem I write, to describe your beauty, is dearth
    I will write for years, and Death will never take your life away
    Because by verses you will live, and in my poems you will stay
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