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TITLE: THE VERSE-BOOK OF A HOMELY WOMAN
AUTHOR: FAY INCHFAWN
EBOOK: E05076 (O'Briens Book Cellar)

THE VERSE-BOOK

OF A

HOMELY WOMAN

BY

FAY INCHFAWN
[Elizabeth Rebecca Ward]

CONTENTS

PART I

INDOORS

THE LONG VIEW

WITHIN MY HOUSE

THE HOUSEWIFE

TO MOTHER

IN SUCH AN HOUR

THE DAILY INTERVIEW

THE LITTLE HOUSE

THE HOUSE-MOTHER

A WOMAN IN HOSPITAL

IN CONVALESCENCE

HOMESICK

ON WASHING DAY

WHEN BABY STRAYED

IF ONLY ----

LISTENING

THE DEAR FOLKS IN DEVON

THE REASON

TWO WOMEN

THE PRIZE FIGHT

THE HOME LIGHTS

TO AN OLD TEAPOT

TO A REBELLIOUS DAUGHTER

FOR MOTHERING!

LITTLE FAN

THE NAUGHTY DAY

TO A LITTLE WHITE BIRD

BECAUSE

WHEN HE COMES

PART II

OUT OF DOORS

EARLY SPRING

THE WITNESS

IN SOMERSET

SONG OF A WOODLAND STREAM

LUGGAGE IN ADVANCE

AT THE CROSS ROADS

SUMMER MET ME

THE CARRIER

THE LAD'S LOVE BY THE GATE

THE THRUSH

IN DORSET DEAR

THE FLIGHT OF THE FAIRIES

THE STREET PLAYER

ON ALL SOULS' EVE

THE LOG FIRE

GOD SAVE THE KING

Dedicated

TO

MY FIRST LOVE, MY MOTHER

Part I

INDOORS

The Long View

Some day of days! Some dawning
    yet to be
I shall be clothed with immortality!

And, in that day, I shall not greatly care
That Jane spilt candle grease upon the
    stair.

It will not grieve me then, as once it did,
That careless hands have chipped my
    teapot lid.

I groan, being burdened. But, in that
    glad day,
I shall forget vexations of the way.

That needs were often great, when means
    were small,
Will not perplex me any more at all
A few short years at most (it may be less),
I shall have done with earthly storm and
    stress.

So, for this day, I lay me at Thy feet.
O, keep me sweet, my Master! Keep
    me 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 awkward
    bend,
The carpet rucks, and rises up on end!
Then, all the rooms are cramped and close
    together;
And there's a musty smell in rainy weather.
Yes, and it makes the daily work go hard
To have the only tap across a yard.
These creaking doors, these draughts, this
    battered paint,
Would try, I think, the temper of a saint,

How often had I railed against these
    things,
With envies, and with bitter murmurings
For spacious rooms, and sunny garden
    plots!
Until one day,
Washing the breakfast dishes, so I think,
I paused a moment in my work to pray;
And then and there
All life seemed suddenly made new and
    fair;
For, like the Psalmist's dove among the
    pots
(Those endless pots, that filled the tiny
    sink!),
My spirit found her wings.

"Lord" (thus I prayed), "it matters not
    at all
That my poor home is ill-arranged and
    small:
I, not the house, am straitened; Lord,
    'tis I!
Enlarge my foolish heart, that by-and-by
I may look up with such a radiant face
Thou shalt have glory even in this place.
And when I trip, or stumble unawares
In carrying water up these awkward stairs,
Then keep me sweet, and teach me day
    by day
To tread with patience Thy appointed
    way.

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