The Travel Bureau

All day she sits behind a bright brass rail
Planning proud journeyings in terms that bring
Far places near; high-colored words that sing,
“The Taj Mahal at agrave,” “Kashmir's Vale,”
Spanning wide spaces with her clear detail,
“Sevilla or Fiesole in spring,
Through the fiords in June.” Her words take wing.
She is the minstrel of the great out-trail.
At half past five she puts her maps away,
Pins on a gray, meek hat, and braves the sleet,
A timid eye on traffic. Dully gray
The house that harbors her in a gray street,
The close, sequestered, colorless retreat
Where she was born, where she will always stay.
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