Never the Final Stone

Though by the glory of your lady’s face
The riots of the sun and moon are quelled,
Yet have the hands that fashioned her some grace
Whereto perfection was allied, withheld.

The perfect wooer never speaks the word
The object of his passion most would hear;
So does expectance keep her wild feet spurred
Toward 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 drop
That we may want and strive for Him again.