Perhaps you'd say that what I've done was not
Ideal for me; but then you would be wrong.
I do not find among my acts a blot
On my escutcheon, nor do they belong
To any class of sin or error I
Imagine or believe. I know I've been
Imperfect, but I will surely defy
The claim that imperfection is a sin,
And though some think I would be better off
If I had acted otherwise, I know
More of myself than they do, and I scoff
At such suggestions, which could only grow
In the harsh soil of destructive minds
Whom their own petty self-delusion blinds.
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