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?

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Six O'Clock

Now burst above the city’s cold twilight 
The piercing whistles and the tower-clocks:
For day is done. Along the frozen docks
The workmen set their ragged shirts aright.
Thro’ factory doors a stream of dingy light
Follows the scrimmage as it quickly flocks
To hut and home among the snow’s gray blocks.—
I love you, human labourers. Good-night!
Good-night to all the blackened arms that ache!
Good-night to every sick and sweated brow,
To the poor girl that strength and love forsake,
To the poor boy who can no more! I vow
The victim soon shall shudder at the stake
And fall in blood: we bring him even now.