Love is not blind.
I see with single eye Your ugliness and other women's grace.
I know the imperfection of your face,
The eyes too wide apart, the brow too high For beauty.
Learned from earliest youth am I In loveliness, and cannot so erase Its letters from my mind, that I may trace You faultless,
I must love until I die.
More subtle is the sovereignty of love:
So am I caught that when I say, "Not fair," 'Tis but as if I said, "Not here—not there Not risen—not writing letters." Well I know What is this beauty men are babbling of;
I wonder only why they prize it so.