* * The poetry of Ruth T. Whittlesey * *

A Tryst

I waken at the hour of three-

My Father comes to talk with me.

He tells me that he loves me so;

He shows the way that I must go.

He chides me for my wilful ways,

He guards my nights and plans my days;

A Holy Tryst I have at three,

My Father comes to walk with me.

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