THE PRAYER.

They talk of money and of fame, Would make a fortune or a name, And gold and laurel both must be For ever out of reach of me.

And if I asked of God or fate The gift most gracious and most great, It would not be such gifts as these That I should pray for on my knees.

No, I should ask a greater grace— A little, quiet, firelit place, Warm-curtained, violet-sweet, where she Should hold my baby on her knee.

There she should sit and softly sing The songs my heart hears echoing; And I, made pure by joy, should come Not all unworthy to our home.

But if I dared to ask this grace, Would not God laugh out in my face? Since gold and fame indeed are His To give, but, ah! not this, not this!