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Poem

The Busy Office

In the busy office, where the papers fly
And the typewriters clack their endless song
There is no room for beauty or for joy
But only for the drudgery of the throng

The workers toil from morn till eve, and then
They hurry home to snatch a brief repose
And dream of all the things they might have been
If fate had not condemned them to their woes

But sometimes, in the midst of all the noise
A sudden silence falls upon the place
And then, a voice, melodious and poised
Recites a verse of wit and grace

It is the poet, who in secret writes
His verses on the margins of the sheets
He does not care for fame or fortune's heights
But only for the music of his beats

He is the rebel, who defies the rules
And finds a spark of beauty in the gloom
He is the artist, who with subtle tools
Creates a flower in the barren room

He is the hero, who in spite of all
Preserves his soul and keeps his vision clear.
He is the genius, who can hear the call.
Of something higher than the dull career

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