I HEARD the sluggard say, when he was young and fair, "This is too fine a day, for labor, I declare. Beside a babbling brook in comfort I'll recline, and read a helpful book, and make its message mine. The reapers reap their grain, the farmers bale their hay; and work no doubt seems sane to people built that way. But better is a dream than any kind of toil, so by the babbling stream I'll read up Whist on hoyle." I heard the sluggard say, when age had made him blue, "All through the weary day I wander fro and to; some little job I ask, however small the wage; most any kind of task, to help me in old age. But for my plea and groan no sympathy is felt; the hearts of men are stone, and granite will not melt." Whene'er I see a youth who wastes his golden years, I'd like to push some truth into his foolish ears. Age is the time to rest beside a babbling brook, white whiskers on your chest, and in your hands a book. Youth is the time, my dears, to cut a goodly swath, and your declining years won't find you in the broth. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NORTH WINTER by HAYDEN CARRUTH GLASS HOUSES by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON PATIENCE TAUGHT BY NATURE by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE PILGRIM [SONG], FR. THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS by JOHN BUNYAN CARELESS CONTENT by JOHN BYROM TO THE MEMORY OF THE BRAVE AMERICANS UNDER GENERAL GREENE by PHILIP FRENEAU |