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 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!