A Flawed Rose

What perfect Juliet or Mr. Right
Ever drew breath? Trust me in this, my dear.
No sooner do such paragons appear
And sweep us from our eager feet one night
To realms of shuddering bliss and stunned delight,
Than imperfections creep upon the ear
Or eye. Even as longing draws us near,
Some blemish brings them tumbling from their height.
Nor can we leaven heartbreak with surprise:
Who was it placed them on a pedestal,
These idols unalloyed? Desire bred lies
As surely as our blindness fuelled their fall.
The thorns of compromise are no great blights —
Better a half-flawed rose than lonely nights.