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.
Ike Walton's Prayer
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