To all that is beautiful, not always pure;
To beauty divine, and all the obscured;
To rhythmical rhymes, and those who lack tune;
To stunning sea shores, and tumbling dunes;
To those who strike you as pleasantly sweet;
To grace and glamour with delicate feet;
To those who are left with nothing to say;
To pleasantly pink, to presently grey;
To sizes at large, and those who stand tall;
To sizes that count as nothing at all;
You can not imagine the beauty divine,
The imperfectly pure you leave trailing behind.
You can not imagine what truth can unfold
With beauty that’s deeper than one can behold.