ISSUE: Winter 1952
She lives with me and is my careless love;
All of my faults are funny in her heart.
All of her faults—but she has buried those;
I cannot find them with my fondest art.
I watch and pry, and have a name for one
Should it be ever proven and confessed:
There is no dark religion in her love;
I am not God, but a forgiven guest.
My faults are foibles, like my very strength;
My deepest virtue she indulges too.
I am not terrible to see and hear;
My work is play that curious children do.
She lives with me and is my laughing love,
Nor would I have it different in her mind.
Her single sin—but it is never so,
Nor could I wish it any sweeter kind.
