The Verse-Book of a Homely Woman by Fay Inchfawn - HTML preview

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."