The Housewife

See, I am cumbered, Lord, With serving, and with small vexa- tious 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.