Believing love comes only toward perfect beings,
I, knowing myself imperfect, thought all who loved me fools
Or else myself a thief.
But, having, myself, loved;
Having been jerked shrieking from the dry romantic dug
Whose drugged milk made beloved seem perfect
Love yet my loves,
Though they by standards be imperfect
Seeming most imperfect to themselves
Whose imperfections make them perfect
At being, perfectly, just what they are.