<moore's "not an apology"> 2003-07-19.10:02 p.m. Not an Apology Virginia Moore This I am: fretful as wind, perverse, Not worth your loving, worthy of my lot Of weeping for perfection I have not; Too much a child, a woman with a curse Which foe or friend would suffer to rehearse; Too full of wishes, caring not a jot Whether convention's kept or groceries got: A bit of cloud that changing winds coerce. No, love, for truth's unshaken by a mood, The soul is greater than its garments are, Faults are the devil's promptings and his brood, And what I am eludes a net of lies. You knew it that first night when, under a star, Our lips were sealed. You saw it in my eyes. back /& forth /& frosting names are often sad