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One gets the look but not the eyes.
Hers is a portion of your style,
Who plays the line without the swing
And starts but cannot end your smile.
And there’s the march but not your spring.
It's never you, although she tries.
The shorter, taller, shier, bolder
Conspire to make a shadowing,
One one and one another thing,
Until the eyes of the beholder,
Not finding peace in any part,
Cry out you should be unallowed
To shift your shape into a crowd,
And want one look that shows your heart.


John Gibbens


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