I love thy faults. If angels said to me,
    "We give thee power to change her at thy will,"
My heart, forever loyal unto thee,
    Would leave thee as thou art, my darling, still.

If, like a sculptor in the days of old,
    My hands might mould a form and face divine,
Mine eyes would turn from all their beauty cold,
    And see no sweet face in the world but thine.

If I should tread through blest abodes above,
    And win the love of angels wondrous fair,
My soul would fear their chill perfection, love,
    And then return, thy lowly lot to share.

If thou hast faults, my creed shall make them right.
    I love thee only, and I ever will.
If thou art lowly, yet thy hut is bright—
    If heaven disown thee, I shall claim thee still.