If I knew what poets know, I would find a theme Sweeter than the placid flow Of the fairest dream: I would sing of love that lives On the errors it forgives; And the world would better grow If I knew what poets know. _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! _A Rough Sketch_ I caught, for a second, across the crowd-- Just for a second, and barely that-- A face, pox-pitted and evil-browed, Hid in the shade of a slouch-rim'd hat-- With small gray eyes, of a look as keen As the long, sharp nose that grew between. And I said: 'Tis a sketch of Nature's own, Drawn i' the dark o' the moon, I swear, On a tatter of Fate that the winds have blown Hither and thither and everywhere-- With its keen little sinister eyes of gray, And nose like the beak of a bird of prey! _Our Kind of a Man_