Acceptance

This house is ugly-but it is the house I live in.

Tomorrow I will plant a rose-bush by the door-step

And edge the gravel path with homely scented spice-pinks,

And I will weed the path and rake it smoothly over.

Before my wide-flung door, jesting, I'll spread my prayer-

Tug;

Before my clean-swept hearth-stone I will lay my hearth-

rug.

In summer I will bank the hearth with pungent pine

boughs,

And fill my copper lustre-jug with cool blue larkspurs.

In winter I will keep a fire of beech-logs burning,

And put my lustre jug where the fire-light will strike it.

And yet, when night blots out this house I live in, often

I'll sit long in the purple dark-nor light the candles.

Ethel Arnold Tilden

THE NEAT ONE

When others throw newspapers down,

She lays them in smooth piles;

When index cards lie on the desk,

She places them in files.