Sunday Musings

I picked up a little book at a car boot sale today for the grand sum of 50p, it was an old book of poetry called "Homely Verses of a Home-Lover" by Fay Inchfawn (her real name was Elizabeth Rebecca Ward). I'm not generally a huge poetry lover, or more is the point, I'm very fussy when it comes to poetry however it struck a chord with me. It's quite nostalgic and Enid Blyton-esque in many ways but I believe it was also a spiritual book. I have no idea when the book was published but she was an English poet born in 1880 and she died in 1978 and I endeavour to learn more about this lady.

It has prompted what will be a new regular post from me - Sunday Musings ; a poem, joke, quote, picture - something that will reflect what's going on with me. Here is my first post on this subject! (and I apologise, it's rather long - the actual poem is almost double this length but I've stopped it before it gets into the more spiritual part or else I could be here for days). Would love to hear your thoughts on this poem.

Growing Pains
by Fay Inchfawn

"When all the children are in bed;
I go to look at them,: the Mother said.

Those little peaceful, pillowed faces!
Those little tossed-out limbs! The thousand graces
Of hair, or hands, or sweetly curving lips.
How dear they are! And yet, a slow fear grips
The yearning mother-heart, lest as the days
Pass swiftly on, the little vexing ways
Of these, her darlings, should increase, and be
Brands on their souls; scars for eternity.

The faithful mother-memory recalls
The oft-corrected faults; the frequent falls;
Loud willful talking; lack of common sense;
Slim seeds of untruth; disobedience;
With argument, and that surprising knack
Of quick retort, well known as "answering back."

O little foxes, that so spoil the vines!
We pray. We agonize. We look for signs.

Yet, mother, think again, I say.
Suppose there came to you a day
When you could take your child's sweet soul,
And push it nearer to the goal:
Snatch out the evil, leave the good:
Honestly, would you, if you could?
If you could weed away from each
That tiresome waywardness of thought;
All jarring roughness of speech;
All childish follies swiftly wrought;

They would not be your children, then,
Your little loving nursery folk.
But silent women, cautious men,
Their young necks bowed beneath the yoke.
And stodgy, middle-aged, and slow,
You would not recognize them so.

Think of it, now! No roystering schoolboy fun.
No wild impromptu songs. No deafening noise.
Why, why! They wouldn't be your girls and boys.
If all their days of rollicking were done.

What! Say good-bye to all their stolen blisses?
(And to all shy repentance, remember)
Farewell to jammy doors, and sticky kisses?
Barter young April for a staid September?
Hide the bright hair of your 'neath monkish cowls?
And change young eagles into barn-door fowls?

And, here's another thought: We said just now: "Suppose,
You took out all the bad!" Well, well!
There's no one really knows
Just how much would be left to you.
But, not a lot, I fancy,
Of the original small Ann; nor of the real true Nancy.
There's nothing would be left of Ted,
except his way of kissing.
And not a speck of willful Tom, if all his
faults were missing!

Then, would it be quite fair
To serve them so?
To force them to the highest, then and there,
When they were meant to grow?
To draw them, all at once, into perfection:
Endow them with the art of wise selection:
Develop in an hour,
The steadfast will, the spiritual power,
Which cost you blood and tears,
and harvesting of the years?

love & kisses
Mrs M x