This gloomy northern day,
Or this yet gloomier night,
Has moved a something high In my cold heart; and I, That do not often pray, Would pray to-night. And first on Thee I call For bread, O God of might! Enough of bread for all, - That through the famished town Cold hunger may lie down With none to-night. I pray for hope no less, Strong-sinewed hope, O Lord, That to the struggling young May preach with brazen tongue Stout Labour, high success, And bright reward. And last, O Lord, I pray For hearts resigned and bold To trudge the dusty way - Hearts stored with song and joke And warmer than a cloak Against the cold. If nothing else he had, He who has this, has all. This comforts under pain; This, through the stinging rain, Keeps ragamuffin glad Behind the wall. This makes the sanded inn A palace for a Prince, And this, when griefs begin And cruel fate annoys, Can bring to mind the joys Of ages since.
 
By Robert Louis Stevenson.