Siegfried Sassoon (1886–1967). Picture-Show. 1920.

27. The Imperfect Lover

I NEVER asked you to be perfect—did I?—

Though often I’ve called you sweet, in the invasion

Of mastering love. I never prayed that you

Might stand, unsoiled, angelic and inhuman,

Pointing the way toward Sainthood like a sign-post.

Oh yes, I know the way to heaven was easy.

We found the little kingdom of our passion

That all can share who walk the road of lovers.

In wild and secret happiness we stumbled;

And gods and demons clamoured in our senses.

But I’ve grown thoughtful now. And you have lost

Your early-morning freshness of surprise

At being so utterly mine: you’ve learned to fear

The gloomy, stricken places in my soul,

And the occasional ghosts that haunt my gaze.

You made me glad; and I can still return

To you, the haven of my lonely pride:

But I am sworn to murder those illusions

That blossom from desire with desperate beauty:

And there shall be no falsehood in our failure;

Since, if we loved like beasts, the thing is done,

And I’ll not hide it, though our heaven be hell.

You dream long liturgies of our devotion.

Yet, in my heart, I dread our love’s destruction.

But, should you grow to hate me, I would ask

No mercy of your mood: I’d have you stand

And look me in the eyes, and laugh, and smite me.

Then I should know, at least, that truth endured,

Though love had died of wounds. And you could leave me

Unvanquished in my atmosphere of devils.