The Housewife

The Verse-Book Of A Homely Woman, by Fay Inchfawn

 

The Housewife

See, I am cumbered, Lord,
   With serving, and with small vexa-
     tious things.
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
     wings.
I wrestle — how I wrestle! — through the
     hours.
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
     hands,
And with a babe’s innumerable demands.

I toil with feverish haste, while tear-drops
     glisten,

(O, child of mine, be still. And listen —
     listen!)

At last, I laid aside
Important work, no other hands could do
So well (I thought), no skill contrive so
     true.
And with my heart’s door open — open
     wide —
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.