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

In Convalescence

Not long ago, I prayed for dying
          grace,
     For then I thought to see Thee face to
          face.

     And now I ask (Lord, 'tis a weakling's
          cry)
     That Thou wilt give me grace to live, not
          die.

     Such foolish prayers! I know. Yet
          pray I must.
     Lord help me—help me not to see the
          dust!

     And not to nag, nor fret because the blind
     Hangs crooked, and the curtain sags be-
          hind.

     But, oh! The kitchen cupboards! What a
          sight!
     'T'will take at least a month to get them
          right.

     And that last cocoa had a smoky taste,
     And all the milk has boiled away to waste!

     And—no, I resolutely will not think
     About the saucepans, nor about the sink.

     These light afflictions are but temporal
          things—
     To rise above them, wilt Thou lend me
          wings?

     Then I shall smile when Jane, with towzled
          hair
     (And lumpy gruel!), clatters up the stair.