  My Sorrow diligent would sweep That dingy room infest With dust (thereby I mean my soul) Because she hath a Guest Who doth require that self-same room Be garnished for His rest. And Sorrow (who had washed His feet Where He before had been) Took the long broom of Memory And swept the corners clean, Till in the midst of the fair floor The sum of dust was seen. It lay there, settled by her tears, That fell the while she swept— Light fluffs of grey and earthy dregs; And over these she wept, For all were come since last her Guest Within the room had slept. And, for nor broom nor tears had power To lift the clods of ill, She called one servant of her Guest Who came with right good will, For, by his sweet Lord’s bidding, he Waiteth on Sorrow still; Who, seeing she had done her part As far as in her lay And had intent to keep the place More cleanly from that day, Did with his Master’s dust-pan come And take the dust away. She thankÈd him, and Him who sent Such succour, and she spread Fair sheets of Thankfulness and Love Upon her Master’s bed, Then on the new-scoured threshold stood And listened for His tread. |
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