Even her imperfections shine to me
Like polished gems set in a silver foil;
I know them to be qualitatively
Defects, yet I find they do not soil
The beauty that I see in her. Although
She is no goddess, and not all in all,
And I can see her faults, I let them go,
Not letting any of them cast a pall
Upon my feelings for her. They are known
Yet not too crucial, nor too emphasized;
For who among has no fault to moan,
Or nothing that they might prefer excised?
I am myself imperfect, so we meet
On equal ground, and that itself is sweet.
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