The Verse-Book Of A Homely Woman, by Fay Inchfawn
See, I am cumbered, Lord,
With serving, and with small vexa-
Upstairs, and down, my feet
Must hasten, sure and fleet.
So weary that I cannot heed Thy word;
So tired, I cannot now mount up with
I wrestle — how I wrestle! — through the
Nay, not with principalities, nor powers —
Dark spiritual foes of God’s and man’s —
But with antagonistic pots and pans:
With footmarks in the hall,
With smears upon the wall,
With doubtful ears, and small unwashen
And with a babe’s innumerable demands.
I toil with feverish haste, while tear-drops
(O, child of mine, be still. And listen —
At last, I laid aside
Important work, no other hands could do
So well (I thought), no skill contrive so
And with my heart’s door open — open
With leisured feet, and idle hands, I sat.
I, foolish, fussy, blind as any bat,
Sat down to listen, and to learn. And lo,
My thousand tasks were done the better so.