Glory be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spáre, strange;
Whatever is fickle, frecklèd (who knows how?)
With swíft, slów; sweet, sóur; adázzle, dím;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is pást change:
I love this poem because it gives me the words and the images to be happy and less self-tormenting about being imperfect. In fact it tells me that my imperfections are what make me beautiful. Imperfect is a bad word.
I am a work in progess, sure but I will be that until the day I die, and since I do not know when that will be, now, at the end of this day, I put down the hammer and chisel and the paint and sandpaper and say, “This is good for today,” and go and put my pjs on and wipe off my warpaint and snuggle up in my comfy but unglamorous dressing gown of fleece and have done worrying.