Nothing To Do
by James Ephraim McGire
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?
2 comments:
Thought provoking poem. It is a call to social conscience and responsibility to act. How thoughtful and timely it was as I watch the morning news.
I so wish he had been my math teacher. Love me some Pietro Boselli.
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