Discontent

LET me do something perfect, before death;
Some least of things, so it be whole, and free
From any faltering touch; that none may see
One faintest flaw; that not one lightest breath
May dim the grace my sure hand fashioneth.
I know there is not any strength in me
To work this deed: oh, may Thy power be
Fulfilled in weakness, as Thy scripture saith!

My soul is sick of half-accomplishment,
Of deeds that are no deeds, of victories
Uncrowned by triumph; stranger to content
Until Thou work in me some excellence,
That my heart may have rest ere I go hence;
Blind voyager across the bitter seas.