THE WANT-AD OF MY SOUL
My need, which is my creed, I write upon this scroll—
Be pleased, oh gracious Lord, to heed the want-ad of my soul.
A cheer that does not lean upon digestion or the sun—
Supports itself and never asks a boost of any one.
To laugh whole-heartedly—or should ill-fortune crowd me in,
Cause me to smile—give me, oh Lord, at least the gift to grin.
Not quite too proud, oh Lord, to fight, but if the thing’s to do,
Then tutor me to battle clean—until the round is through.
If I have good to speak of men, then may that good be said—
Let me not hold like miser’s gold my say until they’re dead.
And Lord, I would be schooled to do with neither pomp nor fuss,
Some decent thing and yet not feel so thundering virtuous.
Should gossip drop around to claim my hospitality,
May I not send him forth again but bid him stop with me.
And if I have to fore-flush, Lord, to keep up with the brood
Of Fortune’s darlings, then give me the eagle’s solitude.
Make this almighty me to know that as I trudge along,
Perhaps once in ten thousand times I’m likely to be wrong;
And that by some miraculous, unprecedented flight
Of lucky stars that shelter him, my neighbor may be right.
Forbid it that my soul grow stale—let me not be defiled
Nor cloyed with surfeit—let me keep the ardor of a child.
Give me imagination, Lord, to see the unseen things—
To know the yonder, far-off feel that comes when some bird sings.
Help me to square with all the best traditions of my clan—
Make me, oh Lord, a regular, real, bang-up, manly man.
Give me imagination, Lord,
To see the unseen things—
To know the yonder, far-off feel
That comes when some bird sings.