Black, but Comely

She waved her branch, fair Didymë,
And waving stole my heart away;
And now like wax in fire, see,
I melt in swift decay.

If she is black, what's that to me?
This charcoal too is black, but yet
No rose more red can ever be
When once alight 'tis set.
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Asclepiades
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