O idleness, too fond of me, <br />Begone, I know and hate thee! <br />Nothing canst thou of pleasure see <br />In one that so doth rate thee; <br /> <br />For empty are both mind and heart <br />While thou with me dost linger; <br />More profit would to thee impart <br />A babe that sucks its finger. <br /> <br />I know thou hast a better way <br />To spend these hours thou squand'rest; <br />Some lad toils in the trough to-day <br />Who groans because thou wand'rest; <br /> <br />A bleating sheep he dowses now <br />Or wrestles with ram's terror; <br />Ah, 'mid the washing's hubbub, how <br />His sighs reproach thine error! <br /> <br />He knows and loves thee, Idleness; <br />For when his sheep are browsing, <br />His open eyes enchant and bless <br />A mind divinely drowsing; <br /> <br />No slave to sleep, he wills and sees <br />From hill-lawns the brown tillage; <br />Green winding lanes and clumps of trees, <br />Far town or nearer village, <br /> <br />The sea itself; the fishing feet <br />Where more, thine idle lovers, <br />Heark'ning to sea-mews find thee sweet <br />Like him who hears the plovers. <br /> <br />Begone; those haul their ropes at sea, <br />These plunge sheep in yon river: <br />Free, free from toil thy friends, and me <br />From Idleness deliver!<br /><br />Thomas Sturge Moore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/idleness/
