The Hero, the Girl, and the Fool by W.B. Yeats

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The Girl

I rage at my own image in the glass, / That's so unlike myself that when you praise it / It is as though you praised another, or even / Mocked me with praise of my mere opposite; / And when I wake towards morn I dread myself / For the heart cries that what deception wins / Cruelty must keep; therefore be warned and go / If you have seen that image and not the woman.

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