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.