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Poem	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.
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