The Verse-Book Of A Homely Woman | Page 4

care
That Jane spilt candle grease
upon the
stair.
It will not grieve me then, as once it did,
That careless hands have
chipped my
teapot lid.
I groan, being burdened. But, in that
glad day,
I shall forget vexations of the way.
That needs were often great, when means
were small,
Will not perplex me any more at all
A few short years
at most (it may be less),
I shall have done with earthly storm and
stress.
So, for this day, I lay me at Thy feet.
O, keep me sweet, my Master!
Keep
me sweet!
Within my House
First, there's the entrance, narrow,
and so small,
The hat-stand seems to fill the tiny hall;
That staircase,
too, has such an awkward
bend,
The carpet rucks, and rises up on end!
Then, all the rooms are
cramped and close

together;
And there's a musty smell in rainy weather.
Yes, and it
makes the daily work 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