Poem by William Wordsworth

To Mary

Let other bards of angels sing,
Bright suns without a spot;
But thou art no such perfect thing:
Rejoice that thou art not!

Heed not tho' none should call thee fair;
So, Mary, let it be
If nought in loveliness compare
With what thou art to me.

True beauty dwells in deep retreats,
Whose veil is unremoved
Till heart with heart in concord beats,
And the lover is beloved. 

1. To the Sons of Burns
2. Monument of Mrs. Howard
3. The Glen of Loch Etive
4. Suggested at Tyndrum in a Storm
5. Roman Antiquities

Samuel Lover To Mary ("As in the calmest day the pine-tree gives")

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