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 hearthstore 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-risen 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 drove 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 this 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.