A Thanksgiving to God, for His House

Lord, thou hast given me a cell,
  Wherein to dwell;
A little house, whose humble roof
  Is weather-proof;
Under the spars of which I lie
  Both soft and dry;
Where thou, my chamber for to ward,
  Hast set a guard
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
  Me, while I sleep.
Low is my porch, as is my fate:
  Both void of state;
And yet the threshold of my door
  Is worn by th' poor,
Who thither come, and freely get
  Good words, or meat.
Like as my parlor, so my hall
   And kitchen's small;
A little buttery, and therein
   A little bin,
Which keeps my little loaf of bread
   Unchipt, unflead;
Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar
   Make me a fire,
Close by whose living coal I sit,
   And glow like it.
Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
   The pulse is thine,
And all those other bits that be
   There placed by thee;
The worts, the purslain, and the mess
   Of water-cress,
Which of thy kindness thou hast sent;
   And my content
Makes those, and my beloved beet,
   To be more sweet.
'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth
   With guiltless mirth,
And giv'st me wassail-bowls to drink,
   Spiced to the brink.
Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand
   That soils my land,
And giv'st me, for my bushel sown,
   Twice ten for one;
Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay
  Her egg each day;
Besides my healthful ewes to bear
  Me twins each year;
The while the conduits of my kine
  Run cream, for wine:
All these, and better, thou dost send
  Me--to this end,
That I should render, for my part,
  A thankful heart.

_--R. Herrick_

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