Nothing To Do
The fields are white, The laborers are few; Yet say the idle, There’s nothing to do. Jails are crowded, In Sunday Schools few; We still complain There’s nothing to do. Drunkards are dying, Your sons, it is true; Mothers’ arms folded, With nothing to do. Heathens are dying, Their blood falls on you; How can you people Find nothing to do?
This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on March 31, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.