Ike Walton's Prayer

I crave, dear Lord, No boundless hoard   Of gold and gear,     Nor jewels fine,     Nor lands, nor kine, Nor treasure-heaps of anything.—     Let but a little hut be mine Where at the hearthstone I may hear     The cricket sing,     And have the shine   Of one glad woman’s eyes to make,   For my poor sake,     Our simple home a place divine:— Just the wee cot—the cricket’s chirr— Love, and the smiling face of her.     I pray not for     Great riches, nor For vast estates and castle-halls:— Give me to hear the bare footfalls     Of children o’er     An oaken floor New-rinsed with sunshine, or bespread With but the tiny coverlet And pillow for the baby’s head; And, pray Thou, may The door stand open and the day     Send ever in a gentle breeze,     With fragrance from the locust-trees,       And drowsy moan of doves, and blur     Of robin-chirps, and drone of bees,       With after-hushes of the stir     Of intermingling sounds, and then       The goodwife and the smile of her     Filling the silences again—         The cricket’s call           And the wee cot,         Dear Lord of all,           Deny me not!     I pray not that     Men tremble at       My power of place         And lordly sway,—     I only pray for simple grace     To look my neighbor in the face       Full honestly from day to day—     Yield me his horny palm to hold,         And I ’ll not pray           For gold:— The tanned face, garlanded with mirth, It hath the kingliest smile on earth; The swart brow, diamonded with sweat, Hath never need of coronet.           And so I reach,             Dear Lord, to Thee,           And do beseech             Thou givest me The wee cot, and the cricket’s chirr, Love, and the glad sweet face of her.