Idle by Ella Wheeler Wilcox — Read

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.