Excerpt
The Long View Some day of days! Some dawningyet to beI shall be clothed with immortality!And, in that day, I shall not greatly careThat Jane spilt candle grease upon thestair.It will not grieve me then, as once it did,That careless hands have chipped myteapot lid.I groan, being burdened. But, in thatglad day,I shall forget vexations of the way.That needs were often great, when meanswere small,Will not perplex me any more at allA few short years at most (it may be less),I shall have done with earthly storm andstress.So, for this day, I lay me at Thy feet.O, keep me sweet, my Master! Keepme 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 awkwardbend,The carpet rucks, and rises up on end!Then, all the rooms are cramped and closetogether;And there's a musty smell in rainy weather.Yes, and it makes the daily work go hardTo have the only tap across a yard.These creaking doors, these draughts, thisbattered paint,Would try, I think, the temper of a saint,How often had I railed against thesethings,With envies, and with bitter murmuringsFor spacious rooms, and sunny gardenplots!Until one day,Washing the breakfast dishes, so I think,I paused a moment in my work to pray;And then and thereAll life seemed suddenly made new andfair;For, like the Psalmist's dove among thepots(Those endless pots, that filled the tinysink!),My spirit found her wings."Lord" (thus I prayed), "it matters notat allThat my poor home is ill-arranged andsmall:I, not the house, am straitened; Lord,'tis I!Enlarge my foolish heart, that by-and-byI may look up with such a radiant faceThou shalt have glory even in this place.And when I trip, or stumble unawaresIn carrying water up these awkward stairs,Then keep me sweet, and teach me dayby dayTo tread with patience Thy appointedway.As for the house . . . . Lord, let it bemy partTo walk within it with a perfect heart." The Housewife See, I am cumbered, Lord,With serving, and with small vexa-tious things.Upstairs, and down, my feetMust hasten, sure and fleet.So weary that I cannot heed Thy word;So tired, I cannot now mount up withwings.I wrestle—how I wrestle!—through thehours.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 unwashenhands,And with a babe's innumerable demands.I toil with feverish haste, while tear-dropsglisten,(O, child of mine, be still. And listen—listen!)At last, I laid asideImportant work, no other hands could doSo well (I thought), no skill contrive sotrue.And with my heart's door open—openwide—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. ...