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