PERVERSITY by WILFRED OWEN

We all love more the Passed and the To Be
Than actual time, and far things more than near.
Perverse we all are somehow; calling dear
Rather the rare than fair. But as for me,
How singular and sad that I should see
More loveliness in Grecian marbles clear
Than modern flesh, to beauty insincere;
Less glory in a man than any tree.

I fall in love with children, elfin fair;
Portraits; dark ladies in dark tales antique;
Or instantaneous faces passed in streets.
I know the dim old gods that never were,
Better than men. One friend I love unique,
But now, thou canst not dream I love thee, Keats!