An author friend once said to me
In quite a natural way,
"You write of things domestic, dear,
The things of every day."
"Ah, no, my friends, I only dream,
But Sunday dreams alway."
In faith he said, "I choose big themes,"
Big themes he choose, 'tis true:
Of masterpieces men had made,
Of things they hope to do;
And I but dream of man himself,
How he was made God knew.
A scientist once said to me,
His mighty work in hand,
"There is no God, for man may know
The skies, the seas, the land,
There is no after-life," he sighed,
"We all become just sand!"
Just dreams I dream, such happy dreams
Of things God makes above:
Of birds and bees, of flowers and trees,
The nest He gave the dove,
The Soul that He made into me,
Of Life, and Home, and Love.
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