Thomas Hardy — The Beauty

O do not praise my beauty more,        &nbsp In such word-wild degree, And say I am one all eyes adore;        &nbsp For these things harass me! But do for ever softly say:        &nbsp “From now unto the end Come weal, come wanzing, come what may,        &nbsp Dear, I will be your friend.” I hate my beauty in the glass:        &nbsp My beauty is not I: I wear it: none cares whether, alas,        &nbsp Its wearer live or die! The inner I O care for, then,        &nbsp Yea, me and what I am, And shall be at the gray hour when        &nbsp My cheek begins to clam.