ELIZABETH REBECCA WARD, writing as Fay Inchfawn, produced popular verse from her home in the English village of Freshford in Somerset, mostly between the two World Wars. Here are a few of her simple and charming poems: on early spring, on domestic chores and on a thinking housewife’s day. (On the last, I cannot get the indentations right in this format.)

EARLY SPRING

— Fay Inchfawn

Quick through the gates of Fairyland
The South Wind forced his way.
‘Twas his to make the Earth forget
Her grief of yesterday.
“‘Tis mine,” cried he, “to bring her joy!”
And on his lightsome feet
In haste he slung the snowdrop bells,
Pushed past the Fairy sentinels,
And out with laughter sweet.

Clear flames of Crocus glimmered on
The shining way he went.
He whispered to the trees strange tales
Of wondrous sweet intent,
When, suddenly, his witching voice
With timbre rich and rare,
Rang through the woodlands till it cleft
Earth’s silent solitudes, and left
A Dream of Roses there!

***********

IN CONVALESCENCE

— Fay Inchfawn

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 smile when Jane, with towzled hair
(And lumpy gruel!), clatters up the stair.

**********

THE HOUSEWIFE

— Fay Inchfawn

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.
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.

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