The Cure
Idleness, that dreaded disease of the mind,
When all else is a gathering of labor’s kind,
Who sow the seeds and reap the harvest,
And bind themselves to love’s request.
To work through love is love made visible,
The sculptor equipped with dreams and chisel,
A work that demands a fondness to the hours,
A devotional work like bees to the flowers.
Idleness, with envy written upon its face,
Alone in its misery and behind labor’s pace,
Seeking a cure to catch up and stay abreast,
Finds it through labor, labor’s sole request.
A happy and fruitful man is he
Who found the cure from devotion’s decree.
This is a Labor Day poem, as it appeared in "The Belt and Beyond" magazine
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