Two Women

"I beseech Euodias, and beseech Syntyche, that they be of the same mind in the Lord" -- Phil. iv. 2,

EUODIAS.

But if Paul heard her tattlings, I am sure
He never would expect me to endure.
There is a something in her very face
Antagonistic to the work of grace.
And even when I would speak graciously
Somehow, Syntyche's manner ruffles me.

SYNTYCHE.

No, not for worlds! Euodias has no mind;
So slow she is, so spiritually blind.
Her tongue is quite unbridled, yet she says
She grieves to see my aggravating ways
Ah, no one but myself knows perfectly
How odious Euodias can be!

EUODIAS.

Yet, "in the Lord." Ah, that's another thing!

SYNTYCHE.

Yet, "in the Lord." That alters it in- deed.

EUODIAS.

For His sake I'll endure her whispering

SYNTYCHE.

For His sake I'll consent to let her lead.

EUODIAS.

Lord, teach me to forbear; yes, day by day.

SYNTYCHE.

Lord, keep me gentle now, and all the way.

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

Homesick

Fay Inchfawn, Simple Poetry

On Washing Day

Fay Inchfawn, Simple Poetry

Little Fan

Fay Inchfawn, Simple Poetry

In Convalescence

Fay Inchfawn, Simple Poetry

English

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The House-Mother

Across the town the evening bell is ringing;
Clear comes the call, through kitchen windows winging!

Lord, knowing Thou art kind,
I heed Thy call to prayer.
I have a soul to save;
A heart which needs, I think, a double share
Of sweetnesses which noble ladies crave.
Hope, faith and diligence, and patient care,
With meekness, grace, and lowliness of mind.
Lord, wilt Thou grant all these
To one who prays, but cannot sit at ease?

They do not know,
The passers-by, who go
Up to Thy house, with saintly faces set;
Who throng about Thy seat,
And sing Thy praises sweet,
Till vials full of odours cloud Thy feet;
They do not know . . .
And, if they knew, then would they greatly care
That Thy tired handmaid washed the children's hair;
Or, wit...

Fay Inchfawn

Gentle Echo On Woman, A

                    IN THE DORIC MANNER


Shepherd.    Echo, I ween, will in the woods reply,
                And quaintly answer questions: shall I try?
Echo.                                Try.
Shepherd.    What must we do our passion to express?
Echo.                                Press.
Shepherd.    How shall I please her, who ne'er loved before?
Echo.                                Before.
Shepherd.    What most moves women when we them address?
Echo.                                A dress.
Shepherd.    Say, what can keep her chaste whom I adore?
Echo.                                A door.
Shepherd.    If music softens rocks, love tunes my lyre.
Echo.                         ...

Jonathan Swift

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

The Daily Interview

Such a sensation Sunday's preacher made.
"Christian!" he cried, "what is your stock- in-trade?
Alas! Too often nil. No time to pray;
No interview with Christ from day to day,
A hurried prayer, maybe, just gabbled through;
A random text -- for any one will do."
Then gently, lovingly, with look intense,
He leaned towards us --
"Is this common sense?
No person in his rightful mind will try
To run his business so, lest by-and-by
The thing collapses, smirching his good name,
And he, insolvent, face the world with shame."

I heard it all; and something inly said
That all was true. The daily toil and press
Had crowded out my hopes of holiness.
Still, my old self rose, reasoning:
How can you,
With strenuous work to do --
Real slogging work -- say, ...

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Praise Of My Lady

My lady seems of ivory
Forehead, straight nose, and cheeks that be
Hollow'd a little mournfully.
            Beata mea Domina!

Her forehead, overshadow'd much
By bows of hair, has a wave such
As God was good to make for me.
            Beata mea Domina!

Not greatly long my lady's hair,
Nor yet with yellow colour fair,
But thick and crispèd wonderfully:
            Beata mea Domina!

Heavy to make the pale face sad,
And dark, but dead as though it had
Been forged by God most wonderfully
            Beata mea Domina!

Of some strange metal, thread by thread,
To stand out from my lady's head,
Not moving much to tangle me.
            Beata mea Domina!

Beneath her brows the lids fal...

William Morris

The Sick Abbess

EXAMPLE often proves of sov'reign use;
At other times it cherishes abuse;
'Tis not my purpose, howsoe'er, to tell
Which of the two I fancy to excel.
Some will conceive the Abbess acted right,
While others think her conduct very light
Be that as 'twill, her actions right or wrong,
I'll freely give a license to my tongue,
Or pen, at all events, and clearly show,
By what some nuns were led to undergo,
That flocks are equally of flesh and blood,
And, if one passes, hundreds stem the flood,
To follow up the course the first has run,
And imitate what t'other has begun.
When Agnes passed, another sister came,
And ev'ry nun desired to do the same;
At length the guardian of the flock appeared,
And likewise passed, though much at first she feared.
The tale is ...

Jean de La Fontaine