See, I am cumbered, Lord,
With serving, and with small vexa-
tious things.
Upstairs, and down, my feet
Must hasten, sure and fleet.
So weary that I cannot heed Thy word;
So tired, I cannot now mount up with
wings.
I wrestle—how I wrestle!—through the
hours.
Nay, not with principalities, nor powers—
Dark spiritual foes of God's and man's—
But with antagonistic pots and pans:
With footmarks in the hall,
With smears upon the wall,
With doubtful ears, and small unwashen
hands,
And with a babe's innumerable demands.

I toil with feverish haste, while tear-drops
glisten,

(O, child of mine, be still. And listen—
listen!)

At last, I laid aside
Important work, no other hands could do
So well (I thought), no skill contrive so
true.
And with my heart's door open—open
wide—
With leisured feet, and idle hands, I sat.
I, foolish, fussy, blind as any bat,
Sat down to listen, and to learn. And lo,
My thousand tasks were done the better so.