Never the Final Stone
THOUGH by the glory of your lady's faceThe riots of the sun and moon are quelled,Yet have the hands that fashioned her some graceWhereto perfection was allied, withheld.
The perfect wooer never speaks the wordThe object of his passion most would hear;So does expectance keep her wild feet spurredToward that which ever is no more than near.
And daily from His lonely mountain-top,God sees us rear our Babels on the plain;Then with one stone to go, He lets us dropThat we may want and strive for Him again.
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