In this our imperfected sphere,
Where every excellence is flawed,
And each perstringent measuring rod
Abuse the best that pass us here,
Why cringe that love must compromise,
That even in Dame Hera's rite
The best were wed in some despite
Of fault that in the other lies?
For if perfection reigned as such,
Complacency as well were king,
And honor to the oath and ring
Were easy-easy all too much.
And like in us, had we no slips
Of grace, of beauty-none of these
Awoke us from Philistine ease
With human hands and living lips.
And still the market makes increase,
Ideals being at a buying-price
That makes them cheap as cheapest vice;
And of their sale is no surcease.
But equally, do we as one
Defective love still realize;
And till in us perfection lies,
An easeful love us bettered none.
With unlucid tongue we speak our vow,
And hope that we, the faithless band,
Shall hear it said in later land
We loved enough for here, for now.