No verse ever gets it right and
says exactly how these things are,
if ever any language does

Words do not come at our command
and like the light from distant stars
show each thing only as it was

And even there the light is wrong,
the trace is clumsy in the touch,
and love is never caught in stone

For your sake stop my mouth and song,
which says too little or too much,
and pare my language to the bone

That love at last might find a voice
that touches both the peak and trough
and steadies each in balanced thought

To know when love is not a choice,
to know when love is not enough,
and know when love is all, or nought.