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.