The Verse-Book Of A Homely Woman | Page 4

go hard?To have the only tap across a yard.?These creaking doors, these draughts, this
battered paint,?Would try, I think, the temper of a saint,
How often had I railed against these
things,?With envies, and with bitter murmurings?For spacious rooms, and sunny garden
plots!?Until one day,?Washing the breakfast dishes, so I think,?I paused a moment in my work to pray;?And then and there?All life seemed suddenly made new and
fair;?For, like the Psalmist's dove among the
pots?(Those endless pots, that filled the tiny
sink!),?My spirit found her wings.
"Lord" (thus I prayed), "it matters not
at all?That my poor home is ill-arranged and
small:?I, not the house, am straitened; Lord,
'tis I!?Enlarge my foolish heart, that by-and-by?I may look up with such a radiant face?Thou shalt have glory even in this place.?And when I trip, or stumble unawares?In carrying water up these awkward stairs,?Then keep me sweet, and teach me day
by day?To tread with patience Thy appointed
way.?As for the house . . . . Lord, let it be
my part?To walk within it with a perfect heart."
The Housewife
See, I am cumbered, Lord,
With serving, and with small vexatious?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.
To Mother
I would that you should know,?Dear mother, that I love you -- love
you so!?That I remember other days and years;?Remember childish joys and childish fears.?And this, because my baby's little hand?Opened my own heart's door and made
me understand.
I wonder how you could?Be always kind and good!?So quick to hear; to tend?My smallest ills; to lend?Such sympathising ears?Swifter than ancient seer's.?I never yet knew hands so soft and kind,?Nor any cheek so smooth, nor any mind?So full of tender thoughts. . . . Dear
mother, now?I think that I can guess a little how?You must have looked for some response,
some sign,?That all my tiresome wayward heart was
thine.
And sure it was! You were my first dear
love!?You who first pointed me to God above;?You who seemed hearkening to my lightest
word,?And in the dark night seasons always
heard?When I came trembling, knocking at your
door.?Forgive me, mother, if my whims outwore?Your patient heart. Or if in later days?I sought out foolish unfamiliar ways;?If ever, mother dear, I loosed my hold?Of your loved hand; or, headstrong,
thought you cold,?Forgive me, mother! Oh, forgive me,
dear!?I am come back at last -- you see me
here,?Your loving child. . . . And, mother,
on my knee?I pray that thus my child may think of
me!
In Such an Hour
Sometimes, when everything goes
wrong:?When days are short, and nights are long;?When wash-day brings so dull a sky?That not a single thing will dry.?And when the kitchen chimney smokes,?And when there's naught so "queer" as
folks!?When friends deplore my faded youth,?And when the baby cuts a tooth.?While John, the baby last but one,?Clings round my skirts till day is done;?When fat, good-tempered Jane is glum,?And butcher's man forgets to come.
Sometimes, I say, on days like these,?I get a sudden gleam of bliss.?"Not on some sunny day of ease,?He'll come . . but on a day like this!"?And, in the twinkling of an eye,?These tiresome things will all go by!
And, 'tis a curious thing, but Jane?Is sure, just then, to smile again;?Or, out the truant sun will peep,?And both the babies fall asleep.?The fire burns up with roar sublime,?And butcher's man is just in time.?And oh! My feeble faith grows strong?Sometimes, when everything goes wrong!
The Daily Interview
Such a sensation Sunday's preacher
made.?"Christian!" he cried, "what is your stockin
-trade??Alas! Too often nil. No time to pray;?No interview with Christ from day to day,?A hurried prayer, maybe, just gabbled
through;?A random text -- for any one will do."?Then gently, lovingly, with look intense,?He leaned towards us --?"Is this common sense??No person in his rightful mind will try?To run his business so, lest by-and-by?The thing collapses, smirching his good
name,?And he, insolvent, face the world with?shame."
I heard it all; and something inly said?That all was true. The daily toil and press?Had crowded out my hopes of holiness.?Still, my old self rose, reasoning:?How can you,?With strenuous work to do --?Real slogging work -- say, how can you
keep pace?With leisured folks? Why, you could
grow in grace?If you had time . . . the daily Interview?Was never meant for those who wash