In Convalescence

A poem by Fay Inchfawn

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 behind.

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.

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