never think she loves him wholly; never believe her love is blind.
all his faults are locked securely in a closet of her mind.
all his indecisions folded like old flags that time has faded
limp and streaked with rain. and his cautiousness like garments
frayed and thin, with many a stain - let them be, oh! let them be!
there is treasure to outweigh them!
his proud will that sharply stirred climbs as surely as the tide,
senses strained too taut to sleep, gentleness to beast and bird,
humor flickering hushed and wide as the moon on moving water,
and a tenderness too deep to be gathered in a word.
- sara teasdale
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