* * The poetry of Ruth T. Whittlesey * *


All my life I longed for music,

Longed to touch it, longed to hold it,

Tried to catch it as it passed me,

Hoarded up the strains that mold it,

Mold it into something solid,

Something real and strong and lovely,

But I dropped a strand too early

And it wafted high above me.

So I turned my hand to to writing,

Writing lyrics, writing sonnets,

Writing rhymes about the weather,

About boys and babes and bonnets,

And my boy would sing the lyrics;

Catch the strains that always passed me;

Put the sonnets all to music,

Melt and mold so they would last me,

Made of them the things I dreamed of,

Played it, sang it, tossed it o'er me.

Like a fairy gift it comes back,

And is always there before me.

Made new music ever lovely,

So he has it as he gives it,

Like a fairy web he weaves it,

And he shares it as he lives it.

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