She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that’s best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes;Thus mellowed to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.
Some Byron guy wrote this in late 1700s
but I am damn sure,
he was imagining you in his head,
Oh! I am mad at him for that,
but thanks to him,
for writing this as your birthday gift.
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