When I Behold How Some Pursue Fame, That Is Care'S Embodiment Or Fortune, Whose False Face Looks True, An Humble Home With Sweet Content Is All I Ask For Me And You. An Humble Home, Where Pigeons Coo, Whose Path Leads Under Breezy Lines Of Frosty-Berried Cedars To A Gate, One Mass Of Trumpet-Vines, Is All I Ask For Me And You. A Garden, Which All Summer Through, The Roses Old Make Redolent, And Morning-Glories, Gay Of Hue, And Tansy, With Its Homely Scent, Is All I Ask For Me And You. An Orchard, That The Pippins Strew, From Whose Bruised Gold The Juices Spring; A Vineyard, Where The Grapes Hang Blue, Wine-Big And Ripe For Vintaging, Is All I Ask For Me And You. A Lane That Leads To Some Far View Of Forest Or Of Fallow-Land, Bloomed O'Er With Rose And Meadow-Rue, Each With A Bee In Its Hot Hand, Is All I Ask For Me And You. At Morn, A Pathway Deep With Dew, And Birds To Vary Time And Tune; At Eve, A Sunset Avenue, And Whippoorwills That Haunt The Moon, Is All I Ask For Me And You. Dear Heart, With Wants So Small And Few, And Faith, That's Better Far Than Gold, A Lowly Friend, A Child Or Two, To Care For Us When We Are Old, Is All I Ask For Me And You.