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.