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.