This Book Poem by Della Hodgson James

This book is my diary
  So from day to day,  
I add a few happenings
  As I go on my way.
Into these pages
  With every line,  
My life is woven
  By the machine of time.

The things that I write about
  Are not very much,  
Just things about the children
  Flowers, fairies and such.

Sketches from life
  Memories of the past,  
Prophecies of the future
  Reverences that last.

Sometimes when I'm happy
  I inser something glad,  
But more often I'm tearful
  Then my rhymes ring sad.

I did not want to write this book
  I have no education,  
But something seems to tell me to
  And loud was my lamentation.

The promptings of my heart would come
  All in a tangled tumble,  
I knew not how to write them down
  Nor took the time or trouble.

But in time some sixth sense, taught me how
  I've tried to do it's bidding,  
By telling what life has reveiled
  Nothing willingly ommitting.

So read, read on and on
  Read this little book through,  
Then dropp a line and tell me
  What best suited you.