Work

The man who has it day by day

O, how he’d like to steal away

To some far off half-hid retreat

And rest his aching hands and feet.

Or if he could not go afar

He’d like to put it in a jar

And seal it up and place it where

It wouldn’t aid his daily care;

He fain would shove it idly by

And guard it with his watchful eye,

For he who has a stack of work

Would much prefer to dream and shirk.

But he who has no work to do,

Who has no stack of work in view,

Ah! He’s the one would like to see

Work piled about promiscuously;

Would like to be surrounded by

Great walls of work both thick and high.

And so it is through life we go,

Our faces harrowed up with woe;

The things we want we cannot get

The things we have we most regret;

Work makes us weary of the strife,

The lack of it embitters life.

May 21, ‘10