The Long View

Some day of days! Some dawning yet to be
I shall be clothed with immortality!

And, in that day, I shall not greatly care
That Jane spilt candle grease upon the stair.

It will not grieve me then, as once it did,
That careless hands have chipped my teapot lid.

I groan, being burdened. But, in that glad day,
I shall forget vexations of the way.

That needs were often great, when means were small,
Will not perplex me any more at all
A few short years at most (it may be less),
I shall have done with earthly storm and stress.

So, for this day, I lay me at Thy feet.
O, keep me sweet, my Master! Keep me sweet!

Fay Inchfawn

Fay Inchfawn was the pen name of Elizabeth Rebecca Ward, a prolific British author and poet born in 1880. She published a variety of works, including poetry, essays, and books on homemaking, and was known for her cheerful, optimistic writing style. Her works often focused on domestic life and faith, resonating particularly with female readers in the early to mid-20th century. Beyond her literary output, little is widely known about her personal life. Fay Inchfawn passed away in 1978.

Fay Inchfawn

For Mothering!

Fay Inchfawn, Simple Poetry

The Street Player

Fay Inchfawn, Simple Poetry

The Housewife

Fay Inchfawn, Simple Poetry

The Daily Interview

Fay Inchfawn, Simple Poetry

English

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When He Comes

"When He comes!
My sweetest 'When'!"
        C. ROSSETTI.

Thus may it be (I thought) at some day's close,
Some lilac-haunted eve, when every rose
Breathes forth its incense. May He find me there,
In holy leisure, lifting hands of prayer,
In some sweet garden place,
To catch the first dear wonder of His Face!

Or, in my room above,
In silent meditation of His love,
My soul illumined with a rapture rare.
It would be sweet, if even then, these eyes
Might glimpse Him coming in the Eastern skies,
And be caught up to meet Him in the air.

But now! Ah, now, the days
Rush by their hurrying ways!
No longer know I vague imaginings,
For every hour has wings.
Yet my heart watches . . . as I work I say,
All simply, to Him: "Come! And if ...

Fay Inchfawn

Within my House

First, there's the entrance, narrow, and so small,
The hat-stand seems to fill the tiny hall;
That staircase, too, has such an awkward bend,
The carpet rucks, and rises up on end!
Then, all the rooms are cramped and close together;
And there's a musty smell in rainy weather.
Yes, and it makes the daily work go hard
To have the only tap across a yard.
These creaking doors, these draughts, this battered paint,
Would try, I think, the temper of a saint,

How often had I railed against these things,
With envies, and with bitter murmurings
For spacious rooms, and sunny garden plots!
Until one day,
Washing the breakfast dishes, so I think,
I paused a moment in my work to pray;
And then and there
All life seemed suddenly made new and fair;
For, like th...

Fay Inchfawn

In Such an Hour

Sometimes, when everything goes wrong:
When days are short, and nights are long;
When wash-day brings so dull a sky
That not a single thing will dry.
And when the kitchen chimney smokes,
And when there's naught so "queer" as folks!
When friends deplore my faded youth,
And when the baby cuts a tooth.
While John, the baby last but one,
Clings round my skirts till day is done;
When fat, good-tempered Jane is glum,
And butcher's man forgets to come.

Sometimes, I say, on days like these,
I get a sudden gleam of bliss.
"Not on some sunny day of ease,
He'll come . . but on a day like this!"
And, in the twinkling of an eye,
These tiresome things will all go by!

And, 'tis a curious thing, but Jane
Is sure, just then, to smile again;
Or, ...

Fay Inchfawn

A Woman in Hospital

I know it all . . . I know.
For I am God. I am Jehovah, He
Who made you what you are; and I can see
The tears that wet your pillow night by night,
When nurse has lowered that too-brilliant light;
When the talk ceases, and the ward grows still,
And you have doffed your will:
I know the anguish and the helplessness.
I know the fears that toss you to and fro.
And how you wrestle, weariful,
With hosts of little strings that pull
About your heart, and tear it so.
I know.

Lord, do You know
I had no time to put clean curtains up;
No time to finish darning all the socks;
Nor sew clean frilling in the children's frocks?
And do You know about my Baby's cold?
And how things are with my sweet three- year-old?
Will Jane remember right
Their cough ...

Fay Inchfawn

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 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 s...

Fay Inchfawn

The Housewife

See, I am cumbered, Lord,
With serving, and with small vexatious 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.

Fay Inchfawn