Classic Poem

From walls that cage and desks that hold,
From pencil, page and pen,
From slaving task and lust for gold
That soil the souls of men,
An hour's release, one golden hour!
And then — the toil again.

Stenographer and stooped-back clerk,
Where towering buildings gleam,
Pass up and down and up and down
A ceaseless, restless stream,
As if each roamed some wistful road
Amid a world of dream.

And then a clock tolls out the hour!
The little time is done!
A crumpled dream the open sky
And singing wind and sun!
Back, back into the frowning halls
They enter one by one.

Poor foolish dreamers of an hour!
The savants may despise
For visions that can fill your hearts
And light your work-tired eyes,
And yet — who knows what paths are yours,
What Paradise?