* * The poetry of Ruth T. Whittlesey * *

Just Dreams

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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