On a pedestal she lorded
My lowly insufficient life.
Idealized was her everything
And no wrong could she do. No-
She was no queen, nor a princess.
Wrong befell her, e'en though she had
Seemed so perfect, just when she me
Loved. Her pedestal crumbled and
No more perfect was she–nay not
E'en good enough for my love,
But if not her, then who is? Yea
No woman is perfect, nor man
For idealized may they be but
Never shall they so perfect be.