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