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 afterhushes of the stir Of intermingling sounds, and then
The good-wife 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.
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