Work, Neighbor, Work!

    "Work, neighbor, work!
    Do not stop to play;
    Wander far and wide,
    Gather all you may.

    We are never like
    Idle butterflies,
    But like the busy bees,
    Industrious and wise."

Louisa May Alcott

Louisa May Alcott was an American novelist and poet best known as the author of the novel 'Little Women' and its sequels 'Little Men' and 'Jo's Boys.' Born in Germantown, Pennsylvania, she grew up in Massachusetts. She was an abolitionist and a feminist and was active in both the Transcendentalist and suffragist movements. Alcott began writing to support her family and went on to publish numerous works that have had a lasting impact on American literature.

Louisa May Alcott

Dear Grif

Louisa May Alcott, Simple Poetry

Welcome, Maids Of Honor

Louisa May Alcott, Simple Poetry

Healfast, Healfast, Ye Hero Wounds

Louisa May Alcott, Simple Poetry

Sweet Are The Flowers Of Life,[1]

Louisa May Alcott, Simple Poetry

Pidgin

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Work.

Like coral insects multitudinous
    The minutes are whereof our life is made.
    They build it up as in the deep's blue shade
It grows, it comes to light, and then, and thus
For both there is an end. The populous
    Sea-blossoms close, our minutes that have paid
    Life's debt of work are spent; the work is laid
Before our feet that shall come after us.
We may not stay to watch if it will speed,
    The bard if on some luter's string his song
Live sweetly yet; the hero if his star
Doth shine. Work is its own best earthly meed,
    Else have we none more than the sea-born throng
Who wrought those marvellous isles that bloom afar.

Jean Ingelow

Work.

Yet life is not a vision nor a prayer,
    But stubborn work; she may not shun her task.
After the first compassion, none will spare
    Her portion and her work achieved, to ask.
She pleads for respite, - she will come ere long
When, resting by the roadside, she is strong.


Nay, for the hurrying throng of passers-by
    Will crush her with their onward-rolling stream.
Much must be done before the brief light die;
    She may not loiter, rapt in the vain dream.
With unused trembling hands, and faltering feet,
She staggers forth, her lot assigned to meet.


But when she fills her days with duties done,
    Strange vigor comes, she is restored to health.
New aims, new interests rise with each new sun,
    And life still holds for her unbounded we...

Emma Lazarus

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 ...

Madison Julius Cawein

Mountain--Laurel

My bonnie flower, with truest joy
Thy welcome face I see,
The world grows brighter to my eyes,
And summer comes with thee.
My solitude now finds a friend,
And after each hard day,
I in my mountain garden walk,
To rest, or sing, or pray.

All down the rocky slope is spread
Thy veil of rosy snow,
And in the valley by the brook,
Thy deeper blossoms grow.
The barren wilderness grows fair,
Such beauty dost thou give;
And human eyes and Nature's heart
Rejoice that thou dost live.

Each year I wait thy coming, dear,
Each year I love thee more,
For life grows hard, and much I need
Thy honey for my store.
So, like a hungry bee, I sip
Sweet lessons from thy cup,
And sitting at a flower's feet,
My soul learns to look up.
...

Louisa May Alcott

Oh My Heart Is Sad And Weary

    'Oh my heart is sad and weary
    Everywhere I roam,
    Longing for the old plantation
    And for the old folks at home.'

Louisa May Alcott

Summer Days Are Over

    "Summer days are over,
    Summer work is done;
    Harvests have been gathered
    Gayly one by one.
    Now the feast is eaten,
    Finished is the play;
    But one rite remains for
    Our Thanksgiving-day.

    "Best of all the harvest
    In the dear God's sight,
    Are the happy children
    In the home to-night;
    And we come to offer
    Thanks where thanks are due,
    With grateful hearts and voices,
    Father, mother, unto you."

Louisa May Alcott