Genius Imprisoned.
In a dark and dingy place,
Surrounded by the sombre, dull-hued things
Of daily business life,
A youth, a pale and wan, though handsome youth,
Sits toiling day by day.
Upon the gray and queer-cracked wall
The plain old office clock
Ticks out the tedious time
In slow and measured strokes.
The youth’s blue eyes glance slowly,
Wearily along the lengthy line
Of graceful 2’s and 3’s,
And now and then the jerky scratching of his pen
Disturbs the gloomy silence of the room.
The Autumn sunbeams flicker oddly
Through the uncleansed panes
And fall athwart the fine-ruled ledger page.
Ah, what is that?
His quick ear hears the pleasant sound
Of distant music strains.
Ay, hark and hark again!
Sweet music, plainer heard,
And fast and fast approaching.
The pen, unheeded, slips and falls
From out his loosened hand.
His tear-stained eyes dance wildly
To the merry peals;
His thin lips part in sweet, sad smiles;
He stands enraptured, charmed and joy-bewildered!
His attitude is one of untrained grace and beauty;
One hand pressed lightly on his throbbing heart,
The other half-uplifted,
With the gesture of a waiting maiden
List’ning for her lover’s gentle step.
His eyes, though turned upon the ever-ticking clock,
See not the stern, rude hands;
His ears hear not the irksome ticking;
He takes no note of time.
His very soul drinks in those grand,
Those glorious strains,
And from his radiant face
There beams a world of poetry and song.
Spellbound, entranced, inspired he stands.
Then from his smiling, parted lips
His soul breathes forth a poem.
The words come ready-formed,
In pretty, well-turned phrases;
And when the music ceases
The yet unfinished poem
Still lingers on his faintly-murmuring lips.
Unconsciously he gazes,
But sees not, hears not,
Till the cruel clock strikes harshly
The death-knell of that poem.
Back! brought rudely back again!
The music stopped,
The poem curtly ended,
That youthful face,
So lately lit with ecstasy of joy,
Wears now a look of keen and sharp-felt pain.
“Tick, tock,” work, work, “tick, tock,” work, work!
Alas! thy fair, sweet dreams
Will not bring bread and shelter
To thy aged, widowed mother!
Thy life is not thine own.
To work, to work!
O fair and noble youth,
Imprisoned poet soul!
If opportunity were thine
The world should have a well-loved hero,
Whose works should live,
Whose name should shine, forever,
And for thy liberty the world would be the better.
Society, thou ill-constructed thing,
Reform thyself!
Dethrone the worthless idlers!
Make room for worthy Genius!
O ye men of wealth and power,
Should this be so?
Should Genius, out of place,
Toil on till death, impoverished, unknown?
This poet soul, imprisoned, dreams away.
A thousand brilliant thoughts
Come rushing to his brain,
And, like some caged wild bird,
Flap their wings and cry for liberty,
But find it not,
And fade and die imprisoned.
