Just a small place to call my own,
Where I can put down root, so deep, so deep,
That great-grandchildren will still call it home.
Is it so much to ask? A lane of trees,
Bringing birdsong and colored leaves,
A grape arbor, the roses beyond,
Sweet lilacs, holding in their arms, the lawn...
Tulips and yellow daffodil,
Spattered up and down the cedar hill,
Sweet gurgling brook, fresh and cool,
The brush beyond, sheltering grouse
And sage, and shy, sweet deer.
Oh aching heart, hungry, hungry soul,
What little bit to make a grateful whole.
Is there no spot in all this Universe?
A little valley, with a cabin home,
A bit of garden I can call my own...
I would not bruise the land, or tear it apart,
But keep it beating with a happy, blooming heart.
Each bit of soil, which God had surely blessed,
Would be a cozy home for seeds to rest...
And grow and nourish, comforting all men,
With fruit and shade, and food for every soul.
A little bit of land, to call my own,
Within its small confines, a loving home...
And fertile soil, no matter the toil,
I would so grateful be, if God
Would take a little chance on me,
And give me a small plot of lonely sod
That needs a gentle hand, and God.
(By Jennie Senrud Hutton)