My love’s eyes are not like a dying star;
Her lips more like bruised meat than sea coral;
Her skin like snow driven over by car;
Her hair not spun gold but more like sorrel.
I have seen the Rosa damascena;
No, her cheeks have more of a fever flush;
No delightful perfume, her hyena-
like scent cannot be fixed with a toothbrush.
The sound of her voice is not unpleasant
but it’s not musical in any way.
Not a dreamer, I live in the present;
I can see that my love has feet of clay.
But still I think that she is quite precious,
because she is real and not fictitious.