Mechanic-Poet

He is but a poor mechanic

     Toiling hard ten hours a day;

Serving faithful his employers

     For a small mechanic’s pay.

While the lathes are turning over –

     Mid the roaring of machines,

He is wandering in the meadows

     He is dreaming poet’s dreams.

The machine-room is his study,

     And his table is the bench;

And tho’ kept from country pastimes,

     It can ne’er his ardor quench.

For as pleasant thoughts come o’er him,

     That will form into a rhyme,

He jots them on manila paper;

     Thus day by day improves his time.

July 19, ‘90

The original is crossed out in his first volume of hand-written poems.

This is basically how he wrote during his years in industry – almost all of the entries have been transcribed from where they were scribbled out on random slips of paper.