Nothing To Do 

The fields are white,
    The laborers are few;
Yet say the idle,
    There’s nothing to do.

Jails are crowded,
    In Sunday Schools few;
We still complain
    There’s nothing to do.

Drunkards are dying,
    Your sons, it is true;
Mothers’ arms folded,
    With nothing to do.

Heathens are dying,
    Their blood falls on you;
How can you people
    Find nothing to do?

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on March 31, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.