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by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

   O praise me not with your lips, dear one!
      Though your tender words I prize.
   But dearer by far is the soulful gaze
      Of your eyes, your beautiful eyes
         Your tender, loving eyes.

   O chide me not with your lips, dear one!
      Though I cause your bosom sighs.
   You can make repentance deeper far
      By your sad, reproving eyes,
         Your sorrowful, troubled eyes.

   Words, at the best, are but hollow sounds;
      Above, in the beaming skies,
   The constant stars say never a word,
      But only smile with their eyes—
         Smile on with their lustrous eyes.

   Then breathe no vow with your lips, dear one;
      On the winged wind speech flies.
   But I read the truth of your noble heart
      In your soulful, speaking eyes—
         In your deep and beautiful eyes.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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