The Outdoorsman

His face is not pretty, some may say.

He labors far too long,

His beard is left unshorn.

His boots and hands are worn,

To the farm does he belong,

His shoulders laid with hay.

Blindness in her eyes was born

Who thought “pretty” the one all plucked and pruned,

Soft, unchallenged except by pillows.

A dying fire with lazy billows.

Pity on she who for him swooned,

And saw the better man with scorn.