busy office

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