Classic Poem

We slave like infernal fools in our two cells
Straining to bring the soul an eternal mesh.
Draining the heart and head each finger spells
A word we pray will endure beyond the flesh.
Both of us, being different in our ways,
Cling to frail paper with a personal pen.
The words he writes or I indite we praise,
For poets, after all, are lonely men
Singing a bit to themselves, but more to each other,
Hoping that fellow there will recognize
A bit of himself in this pale groping brother
Who strives to live through more than mortal eyes,
And adds to a groaning world, too busy to bother,
The tears that only common kinship dries.