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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.