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Her beauty was not in her clothes
Nor, in the sunlight from which she rose.
It's fair to say the drink had her
But no man but one loved her.

She came and went smoothly
And stayed always gently.
The breath was in her eyes--
The kind most try to hide.

She opened with her verse--
Sounds that the heart only heard--
A concert of two pianos--
The kind of birds through a morning window.

Men passed right through her
For beauty was not outside her--
It was in her.

- James V. Nicosia

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