Work
When twenty-one I loved to dream,
And was to loafing well inclined;
Somehow I couldn't get up steam
To welcome work of any kind.
While students burned the midnight lamp,
With dour ambition as their goad,
I longed to be a gayful tramp
And greet adventure on the road.
But now that sixty years have sped,
Behold! I toil from morn to night.
The thoughts that teem into my head
I pray: God give me time to write.
With eager and unflagging pen
No drudgery of desk I shirk,
And preach to all retiring men
The gospel of unceasing work.
And yet I do not sadly grieve
Such squandering of golden days;
For from my dreaming I believe
Have stemmed my least unworthy lays.
Aye, toil is best when all is said,
As age has made me understand . . .
So fitly fold, when I am dead,
A pencil in my hand.
poem by Robert William Service
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So Much To Do
The face of the world is a homely face,
And the look of the world unkind,
When harsh on your arm a hand it lays
And bids you into the grind,
That 's little to your mind, my dear,
That 's little to your mind.
But it 's work that counts in the world, you see;
Not what we dream, but do:
For the dreamer of dreams, whatever he be,
If he 'd have his dreams come true,
Must be a workman, too, my dear,
Must be a workman, too.
So much to do; so much to know;
So much that life would shirk!
But each is one of a hive below,
The world's great Hive of Irk,
Where each must do his work, my dear,
Each one must do his work.
A song, a look, a word of cheer,
Will help more than a sigh!
For this is the law of the hive, my dear,
That every bee must try, my dear,
And all the drones must die, my dear,
That all the drones must die.
Oft-times it seems that the end is far,
And the work we do, in vain;
That night will never reveal a star,
And day bring only rain,
To trouble our hearts again, my dear,
To trouble our hearts again.
But ever the stars are shining there
With ever the old regard;
And be it foul, or be it fair,
However long debarred,
All work has its reward, my dear,
All work has its reward.
Could summer come without the rose?
Or morn without the sun?
And thus shall toil bring soul's repose
To each and every one,
Whose work at last is done, my dear,
Whose work at last is done.
For the face of the world is a homely face,
But the look in its eyes is kind
To him who sets his heart's brisk pace
To the work he has in mind,
And turns not with the wind, my dear,
And turns not with the wind.
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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To the hero of toil
Another days labour for the man at the front
another days work of sweat and of grunt
of straining of muscle of tendon and joint
no praise for the hero of toil
Head down and end up as he reshapes the earth
for the rich and the mighty he'll give all he's worth
with the spade and the hammer he was handed at birth
no praise for the hero of toil
In the darkest of climates he'll give it his last
he wont mumble or groan, he's just one of his class
with the spit on his hands he'll get on with the task
no praise for the hero of toil
Where would we be if it weren't for him
our lives would be dull and our futures be dim
yet he still carries on while the rich sip their gin
no praise for the hero of toil.
poem by Charles M. Moore
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Aspiring to greatness
Some choose to write by candlelight
and some compose straight on the screen.
Whichever way to you seems right,
that is the way it’s always been.
In days of yore you chose your quill,
made sure the ink was close to hand
Before your parchment you could fill,
then sprinkle it with silver sand.
A pencil is my chosen tool
I scribble quickly on my pad
and then transfer it as a rule
to my computer: I am glad
to see it appear on the screen.
Neatly displayed in black and white
the font I use shows crisp and clean
Then I will edit and put right
whatever errors I have made.
Correct the meter and the rhyme.
The final draft is then displayed
. Re editing does not waste time.
It is a task you must not shirk.
Though I’m afraid that many do
and thus do not present their work.
as perfectly as they ought to.
It is entirely up to you
to show that you are willing to
do everything that you can do
to prove you’re fit to join the few.
Whose poetry will still be read.
Like the great poets of the past
In years to come when you are dead.
Whose golden words were meant to last.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Maggies Farm
I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more.
No, I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more
Well, I wake up in the morning
Fold my hands and pray for rain.
I got a head full of ideas
That are drivin me insane
Its a shame
The way she makes me
Scrub the floor
I aint gonna work on, nah
I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more.
I aint gonna work for maggies brother no more
Nah, I aint gonna work for maggies brother no more
Well, he hands you a nickel
And he hands you a dime
And he asks you with a grin
If youre havin a good time
Then he fines you every time you slam the door
I aint gonna work for, nah
I aint gonna work for maggies brother no more
I aint gonna work for maggies pa no more
No, I aint gonna work for maggies pa no more
Well, he puts his cigar
Out in your face just for kicks
His bedroom window
It is made out of bricks
The national guard stands around his door
I aint gonna work, nah
I aint gonna work for maggies pa no more
I aint gonna work for maggies ma no more
No, I aint gonna work for maggies ma no more
Well, she talks to all the servants
About man and God and law
And everybody says
Shes the brains behind pa
Shes sixty-eight, but she says shes twenty-four
I aint gonna work for, nah
I aint gonna work for maggies ma no more
I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more
No, I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more
Well I try my best
To be just like I am
But everybody wants you
To be just like them
They sing while they slave and just get bored
I aint gonna work on, nah
I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more
song performed by by Rage Against The Machine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Arise
Why sit ye idly dreaming all the day,
While the golden, precious hours flit away?
See you not the day is waning, waning fast?
That the morn's already vanished in the past?
When the glowing noon approaches, we will rest
Who have worked through all the morning; but at best,
If you work with zeal and ardor till the night,
You can only make the wasted moments right.
Think you life was made for dreaming, nothing more,
When God's work lies all unfinished at your door?
Souls to save and hearts to strengthen--ah! such work,
Such a richly freighted labor, who would shirk?
Then arise, O idle dreamer! Dreams are sweet,
But better flowers are growing at your feet.
If you crush, or pass unheeding, idle friend,
You shall answer for their ruin in the end.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Maggies Farm
I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more.
No, I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more.
Well, I wake in the morning,
Fold my hands and pray for rain.
I got a head full of ideas
That are drivin me insane.
Its a shame the way she makes me scrub the floor.
I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more.
I aint gonna work for maggies brother no more.
No, I aint gonna work for maggies brother no more.
Well, he hands you a nickel,
He hands you a dime,
He asks you with a grin
If youre havin a good time,
Then he fines you every time you slam the door.
I aint gonna work for maggies brother no more.
I aint gonna work for maggies pa no more.
No, I aint gonna work for maggies pa no more.
Well, he puts his cigar
Out in your face just for kicks.
His bedroom window
It is made out of bricks.
The national guard stands around his door.
Ah, I aint gonna work for maggies pa no more.
I aint gonna work for maggies ma no more.
No, I aint gonna work for maggies ma no more.
Well, she talks to all the servants
About man and God and law.
Everybody says
Shes the brains behind pa.
Shes sixty-eight, but she says shes twenty-four.
I aint gonna work for maggies ma no more.
I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more.
No, I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more.
Well, I try my best
To be just like I am,
But everybody wants you
To be just like them.
They sing while you slave and I just get bored.
I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Son Of Hickory Hollers Tramp
The corn was dry, the weeds were high when Daddy took to drinkin'
Then him and Lucy Walker, they took up and run away
Mama cried a tear and then she promised fourteen children
I swear you'll never see a hungry day.
When mama sacrificed her pride the neighbours started talkin'
But I was much too young to understand a thing they said
The things that mattered most of all was Mama's chicken dumplin's
And a goodnight kiss before we went to bed.
Oh, the path was deep and wide from footsteps leading to our cabin
Above the door there burned a scarlet lamp
And late at night a hand would knock and there would stand a stranger
Yes, I'm the son of Hickory Holler's tramp.
When daddy left and destitution came upon our family
Not one neighbour volunteered to give a helpin' hand
So let 'em gossip all they want, she loved us and she raised us
The proof is standin' here, a full grown man.
Last summer Mama passed away and left the ones who loved her
Each and every one was more than grateful for their birth
Each Sunday she receives a fresh bouquet of fourteen roses
And a card that says The greatest Mom on earth.
Oh, the path was deep and wide from footsteps leading to our cabin
Above the door there burned a scarlet lamp
And late at night a hand would knock and there would stand a stranger
Yes, I'm the son of Hickory Holler's tramp.
Oh, the path was deep and wide from footsteps leading to our cabin
Above the door there burned a scarlet lamp
And late at night a hand would knock and there would stand a stranger
Yes, I'm the son of Hickory Holler's tramp.
Oh, the path was deep and wide from footsteps leading to our cabin
Above the door there burned a scarlet...
song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This Is Payment Price This Poet Pays
My friend is a salary man luckily gainfully employed
five days a week for eight hours a day he earns his pay.
I also for decades worked my days for weekly monthly pay.
I studied hard put in extra time to fully earn my worker pay,
years sped by I worked and worked to earn hard earned pay,
now for a time a time and a half I do not work this way.
I write I write each day by day or through long night.
I work far harder than I did employed in salary fight.
I live on savings hard earned to earn a right to write.
I charge not chance reader read or read not just as you like.
I work I sacrifice to give gift of love as free as stars above.
I give in time in thought in words in wisdom I give in love.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Ain't Gonna Work On Your Farm No More
I ain’t gonna work on your farm no more
I ain’t gonna scrub all your floors,
I ain’t gonna take all your friends who ignore
what I do when they hide behind doors
where they pay no attention to stuff that I think,
and say, when they pay me a dime,
that I ain’t entitled to spend it on drink,
or ladies who show me good time.
I ain’t gonna work for your children or friends
who preach of the law and the Lord,
and hear all those messages God never sends
to people with who He is bored,
like I am. I ain’t gonna work on your farm,
instead I will write me a song,
and pray that its words will all sound the alarm,
for I expect to be back before long.
Mark Z. Barabak (“He’s Digging ‘Farm, ’” LA Times, June 26,2008) writes that Barack Obama’s favorite Bob Dylan song is “Maggie’s Farm, ” performed in 1995 at the Newport Festival, when he turned electric and never looked back:
I AIN’T GONNA WORK ON MAGGIE’S FARM NO MORE
I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
I wake up every morning
hold my hands and pray for rain
I've got a head full of ideas
driving me insane
It's a shame the way she makes me scrub the floor
well, I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
Well, I ain't gonna work for Maggie's brother no more
I ain't gonna work for Maggie's brother no more
He hands you a nickel
he hands you a dime
He asks you and your friends
if you're having a good time
He blames you every time you slam the door
Well, I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
Well, I ain't gonna work for Maggie's Pa no more
I ain't gonna work for Maggie's Pa no more
He stubs his cigarette out in your face just for kicks
his bedroom window is made out of bricks
And the National Guard are standing at his door
well, I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
Well, I ain't gonna work for Maggie's mother no more
I ain't gonna work for Maggie's mother no more
She talks to all the servants about man and God and law
and everybody swears she's the brains behind Pa
She's sixty-eight, but claim's she's twenty-four
well, I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
Well, I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
I try so hard to be just who I am
but everybody wants you to be just like them
They say 'see, while you're playing I get bored'? ?
well, I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
6/26/08
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Lazy
Some men enjoy the constant strife
Of days with work and worry rife,
But that is not my dream of life:
I think such men are crazy.
For me, a life with worries few,
A job of nothing much to do,
Just pelf enough to see me through:
I fear that I am lazy.
On winter mornings cold and drear,
When six o'clock alarms I hear,
'Tis then I love to shift my ear,
And hug my downy pillows.
When in the shade it's ninety-three,
No job in town looks good to me,
I'd rather loaf down by the sea,
And watch the foaming billows.
Some people think the world's a school,
Where labor is the only rule;
But I'll not make myself a mule,
And don't you ever doubt it.
I know that work may have its use,
But still I feel that's no excuse
For turning it into abuse;
What do you think about it?
Let others fume and sweat and boil,
And scratch and dig for golden spoil,
And live the life of work and toil,
Their lives to labor giving.
But what is gold when life is sped,
And life is short, as has been said,
And we are such a long time dead,
I'll spend my life in living.
poem by James Weldon Johnson
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Sonnets LXXIV: LXXV:LXXVI: Old and New Art
I. ST. LUKE THE PAINTER
Give honour unto Luke Evangelist;
For he it was (the aged legends say)
Who first taught Art to fold her hands and pray.
Scarcely at once she dared to rend the mist
Of devious symbols: but soon having wist
How sky-breadth and field-silence and this day
Are symbols also in some deeper way,
She looked through these to God and was God's priest.
And if, past noon, her toil began to irk,
And she sought talismans, and turned in vain
To soulless self-reflections of man's skill,—
Yet now, in this the twilight, she might still
Kneel in the latter grass to pray again,
Ere the night cometh and she may not work.
II. NOT AS THESE
'I am not as these are,” the poet saith
In youth's pride, and the painter, among men
At bay, where never pencil comes nor pen,
And shut about with his own frozen breath.
To others for whom only rhyme wins faith
As poets,—only paint as painters,—then
He turns in the cold silence; and again
Shrinking, “I am not as these are,” he saith.
And say that this is so, what follows it?
For were thine eyes set backwards in thine head,
Such words were well; but they see on, and far.
Unto the lights of the great Past, new-lit
Fair for the Future's track, look thou instead,—
Say thou instead, “I am not as these are.”
III. THE HUSBANDMEN
Though God, as one that is an householder,
Called these to labour in His vineyard first,
Before the husk of darkness was well burst
Bidding them grope their way out and bestir,
(Who, questioned of their wages, answered, “Sir,
Unto each man a penny:”) though the worst
Burthen of heat was theirs and the dry thirst:
Though God has since found none such as these were
To do their work like them:—Because of this
Stand not ye idle in the market-place.
Which of ye knoweth he is not that last
Who may be first by faith and will?—yea, his
The hand which after the appointed days
And hours shall give a Future to their Past?
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Work And Joy
Each day I live I thank the Lord
I do the work I love;
And in it find a rich reward,
All price and praise above.
For few may do the work they love,
The fond unique employ,
That fits them as a hand a glove,
And gives them joy.
Oh gentlefolk, do you and you
Who toil for daily hire,
Consider that the job you do
Is to your heart's desire?
Aye, though you are to it resigned,
And will no duty shirk,
Oh do you in your private mind
Adore your work?
Twice happy man whose job is joy,
Whose hand and heart combine,
In brave and excellent employ
As radiantly as mine!
But oh the weary, dreary day,
The wear and tear and irk
Of countless souls who cannot say:
'I love my work.'
poem by Robert William Service
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End Of A Dream
Dream.....
End of a dream.....
Where do you stand
at the end of
a dream..
All is behind; 'round in your
head
Splinters of sound, words that
were said;
Broken like toys, days that were
planned
Gone into mist, sunk into sand
There's no place to stand
At the end of a dream.....
End.....
End of a dream.....
Where do you go
At the end of a dream.....
Where is another way
where on this earth
Some thing of value
some thing of worth
A burned over land
Blackened by fire
No eager glee now
No hearts desire.....
END OF A DREAM
There's no place to go
At the end of a dream.....
End.....
End of a dream.....
What do you do
At the end of a dream....
Nothings ahead now.....
Something like lead
Lies where your heart lay:
Something is dead.....
An empty glass......to turn in
the hand
Wine is no more now,
you can't understand.....
There's nothing to do
At the end of a dream.....
Dream.....
End of a dream......
What do you learn
at the end of a dream.....
There's some little glow; more
than you know
Something that someday will
burst into flame
Flame into joy......
you'll understand
Green trees will grow again on
burnt-over land.....
END OF A DREAM
There's something to learn
at the of a dream....
End of a dream....
End of a dream.....
There's something to learn
FROM
The End Of A Dream.....
poem by Isabelle Cooper
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The Tunnel
Toil's a tunnel, there's no way out
For fellows, the like o' me;
A beggar wi' only a crust an' a clout
At the worst o' the worst is free;
but I work to eat, an' I eat to work;
It's always the same old round,
And I dassent fail for the day I shirk
They'll shovel me underground.
I guess God meant it to be that way,
For a man must make his bread;
I was born to bondage, to earn my pay,
To slave to the day I'm dead;
To live in a tunnel, to die in a ditch -
That's just what us fellows do;
For the poor must be makin' the rich more rich,
An' the many must serve the few.
Aye, we live in a tunnel, most o' us,
A-fearin' to lose our job;
But who has the right to gripe an' cuss
So the goblet's hot on the hob.
An' I mustn't be havin' the wife complain,
An' I can't let the childer fast:
So I'll toil in my tunnel an' drag my chain,
Clank! Clank! Clank! to the last.
poem by Robert William Service
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How Do You Tackle Your Work
How do you tackle your work each day?
Are you scared of the job you find?
Do you grapple the task that comes your way
With a confident, easy mind?
Do you stand right up to the work ahead
Or fearfully pause to view it?
Do you start to toil with a sense of dread?
Or feel that you're going to do it?
You can do as much as you think you can,
But you'll never accomplish more;
If you're afraid of yourself, young man,
There's little for you in store.
For failure comes from the inside first,
It's there if we only knew it,
And you can win, though you face the worst,
If you feel that you're going to do it.
Success! It's found in the soul of you,
And not in the realm of luck!
The world will furnish the work to do,
But you must provide the pluck.
You can do whatever you think you can,
It's all in the way you view it.
It's all in the start you make, young man:
You must feel that you're going to do it.
How do you tackle your work each day?
With confidence clear, or dread?
What to yourself do you stop and say
When a new task lies ahead?
What is the thought that is in your mind?
Is fear ever running through it?
If so, just tackle the next you find
By thinking you're going to do it.
--From "A Heap o' Linin'," by Edgar A. Guest
I tackle my terrible job each day
With a fear that is well defined;
And I grapple the task that comes my way
With no confidence in my mind.
I try to evade the work ahead,
As I fearfully pause to view it,
And I start to toil with a sense of dread,
And doubt that I'm going to do it.
I can't do as much as I think I can,
And I never accomplish more.
I am scared to death of myself, old man,
As I may have observed before.
I've read the proverbs of Charley Schwab,
Carnegie, and Marvin Hughitt;
But whenever I tackle a difficult job,
O gosh! I hate to do it!
I try to believe in my vaunted power
With that confident kind of bluff,
But somebody tells me The Conning Tower
Is nothing but awful stuff.
And I take up my impotent pen that night,
And idly and sadly chew it,
As I try to write something merry and bright,
And I know that I shall not do it.
And that's how I tackle my work each day--
With terror and fear and dread--
And all I can see is a long array
Of empty columns ahead.
And those are the thoughts that are in my mind,
And that's about all there's to it.
As long as there's work, of whatever kind,
I'm certain I cannot do it.
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Early Works -Years
Children playing with their toys
dotted around the floor
peer at you with questioning eyes
as if you are a stranger in their lair.
At work all day and out of sight
but never out of mind
the only time your presence felt
is when its time to go to bed.
Oh, if work were only a dream
more time you could spend with them
playing games and being a father and a friend,
but to live you must work, toil all the day
missing the years in which your children play.
6 November 1978
poem by David Harris
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Laziness
Let laureates sing with rapturous swing
Of the wonder and glory of work;
Let pulpiteers preach and with passion impeach
The indolent wretches who shirk.
No doubt they are right: in the stress of the fight
It's the slackers who go to the wall;
So though it's my shame I perversely proclaim
It's fine to do nothing at all.
It's fine to recline on the flat of one's spine,
With never a thought in one's head:
It's lovely to le staring up at the sky
When others are earning their bread.
It's great to feel one with the soil and the sun,
Drowned deep in the grasses so tall;
Oh it's noble to sweat, pounds and dollars to get,
But - it's grand to do nothing at all.
So sing to the praise of the fellows who laze
Instead of lambasting the soil;
The vagabonds gay who lounge by the way,
Conscientious objectors to toil.
But lest you should think, by this spatter of ink,
The Muses still hold me in thrall,
I'll round out my rhyme, and (until the next time)
Work like hell - doing nothing at all.
poem by Robert William Service
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Dead Leaves
When these dead leaves were green, love,
November's skies were blue,
And summer came with lips aflame,
The gentle spring to woo;
And to us, wandering hand in hand,
Life was a fairy scene,
That golden morning in the woods
When these dead leaves were green!
How dream-like now that dewy morn,
Sweet with the wattle's flowers,
When love, love, love was all our theme,
And youth and hope were ours!
Two happier hearts in all the land
There were not then, I ween,
Than those young lovers' -- yours and mine --
When these dead leaves were green.
How gaily did you pluck these leaves
From the acacia's bough,
To mark the lyric we had read --
I can repeat it now!
While came the words, like music sweet,
Your smiling lips between --
"So fold my love within your heart,"
When these dead leaves were green!
How many springs have passed since then?
Ah, wherefore should we count,
The years that sped, like waters fled
From Time's unstaying fount?
We've had our share of happiness,
Our share of care have seen;
But love alone has never flown
Since these dead leaves were green.
Your heart is kind and loving still,
Your face to me as fair,
As when, that morn, the sunshine played
Amid your golden hair.
So, dearest, sweethearts still we'll be,
As we have ever been,
And keep our love as fresh and true
As when these leaves were green.
poem by Edward Booth Loughran
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I Aint Gonna Work On Maggies Farm No More
(bob dylan)
I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more
I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more
I wake up every morning
Hold my hands and pray for rain
Ive got a head full of ideas
Driving me insane
Its a shame the way she makes me scrub the floor
Well, I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more
Well, I aint gonna work for maggies brother no more
I aint gonna work for maggies brother no more
He hands you a nickel
He hands you a dime
He asks you and your friends
If youre having a good time
He blames you every time you slam the door
Well, I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more
Well, I aint gonna work for maggies pa no more
I aint gonna work for maggies pa no more
He stubs his cigarette out in your face just for kicks
His bedroom window is made out of bricks
And the national guard are standing at his door
Well, I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more
Well, I aint gonna work for maggies mother no more
I aint gonna work for maggies mother no more
She talks to all the servants about man and God and law
And everybody swears shes the brains behind pa
Shes sixty-eight, but claims shes twenty-four
Well, I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more
Well, I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more
I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more
I try so hard to be just who I am
But everybody wants you to be just like them
They say see, while youre playing I get bored ? ?
Well, I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more
I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more
I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more
I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more
I aint gonna work on maggies farm no more
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I am a King While Working
Working is very nice and fine
It gives a very healthy sign
The working pleasure is mine
I want to work again and again
I am adequately compensated
While working I am not irritated
By sweat my body is irrigated
My efforts will never get wasted
To work I feel very very hungry
Too much work makes me not angry
To do work I always love to agree
I behave like a well-watered tree
My hands may look dirty
My age may be fifty
I love to do my duty
My body ever feels thirsty
I will never grudge
I will ever budge
I will never dodge
I will take a pledge
I care not my body being sweated
I worry not by being disappointed
Only to work I am appointed
To do duty only I am created
Till my last breath
I will toil on this Earth
My birth must give mirth
Only six feet land I am worth!
I will distribute cash
Secretly I will not stash
To work I will make a dash
Lazy feelings equal trash
Day and night I will truly toil
Under the Sun which will boil
I will pray to the mother soil
To make sweat better than oil
O- God- Help me wake up
O- God- Help me make up
Any task, help me take up
Any riddle, help me rake up.
poem by Mailrangam Visvanathan Venkataraman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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