The Glow

If his nose be crooked
I wouldn't see it,
It's hidden behind the glow–
If his hair be rowdy, unruly thicket,
I swear I wouldn't know.
If his skin be scarred or pasty,
If they booed him off the stage,
If his bones be brittle and dainty,
I'd see more a valiant man,
Than upon me kings besiege.

But my copper man does stride
With the armor of his heart
And lift of the chin like a godly kin,
And dignity considered an art.
With eyes as intense as Leon,
Stalking his prey in the grass,
Or to snatch from the club abandoned cubs
And mar a poacher's ass. 

But if he were bruised in a fight,
Or weathered by time and age,
Or whatever the woeful blight
Life itself may rage,
I couldn't — if I tried –
(For a specimen haughty and new)
Leave his precious side,
For a different, disdaining coo!

Because even how
Sickly days art—
They give way as tender times go—
Till death, Till death do us part,
And besides, 
No one else has your glow.