Idle by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I sit in the twilight dim, / At the close of an idle day, / And list to the sweet, soft hymn / That rises far away / And dies on the evening air. / Oh, all day long they sing their song / Who toil in the valley there.

But never a song sing I, / Sitting with folded hands. / The hours pass me by, / Dropping their golden sands. / And I list from day to day / To the tick, tick, tock, of the old brown clock / Ticking my life away.

And I see the sunlight fade, / And I see the night come on; / And then, in the gloom and shade, / I weep for the day that is gone. / Weep, and wail, in pain, / For the misspent day that has flown away / And will not come again.

Another morning beams, / But I forget the last, / And sit in my idle dreams / Till the day is overpast. / Oh, the toiler's heart is glad / When the day is gone and the night comes on, / But mine is sore, and sad.

For I dare not look behind: / No shining, golden sheaves / Can I ever hope to find -- / Nothing but withered leaves. / Ah! dreams are very sweet! / But will it please if only these / I lay at the Master's feet.

And what will the Master say, / To dreams and nothing more? / Oh, idler all the day! / Think, ere thy life is o'er! / And when the day grows late. / Oh, soul of sin, will He let you in / There at the pearly gate?

Oh, idle heart beware! / On, to the field of strife! / On to the valley there, / And live a useful life. / Up! do not wait a day, / For the old brown clock, with its tick, tick, tock, / Is ticking your life away.