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 The Psalmist'S Dove Among The Pots (Those Endless Pots, That Filled The Tiny Sink!), My Spirit Found Her Wings. "Lord" (Thus I Prayed), "It Matters Not At All That My Poor Home Is Ill-Arranged And Small: I, Not The House, Am Straitened; Lord, 'Tis I! Enlarge My Foolish Heart, That By-And-By I May Look Up With Such A Radiant Face Thou Shalt Have Glory Even In This Place. And When I Trip, Or Stumble Unawares In Carrying Water Up These Awkward Stairs, Then Keep Me Sweet, And Teach Me Day By Day To Tread With Patience Thy Appointed Way. As For The House . . . . Lord, Let It Be My Part To Walk Within It With A Perfect Heart."