I seek no marble saint with polished skin,
Nor smiles frozen in a painted mask;
Give me the tempest raging deep within,
The weary soul that labors at its task.
Thy tresses wild, by morning’s breeze undone,
Are crown enough for my adoring gaze;
More dear than gems beneath the golden sun,
Is truth revealed within thy human ways.
Let disorder reign where life has truly been,
For flawless realms are silent, cold, and dead;
I love the tumult of the domestic scene,
The honest words that trembling lips have said.
In every fault and fracture of thy frame,
I find a grace that art cannot devise;
A love meaningful, ignoring virtuous fame,
To read the human truth within thine eyes.
This piece challenges the Victorian ideal of pristine romance, suggesting instead that the deepest bonds are forged not in perfection, but in the vulnerable acceptance of our shared humanity.
