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Title: The Housewife
Author: Fay Inchfawn [
More Titles by Inchfawn]
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.
[The end]
Fay Inchfawn's poem: Housewife
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