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!