Ye Slothful!
The hour of dread is upon you
When the perfect thing shall be accomplished.
The defiler of law
May meet God down avenues of hot sin.
You — performers of nothing,
Who weave your little mats in damp valleys,
What use had mighty God, or a strong devil, for your shrunk souls?
There is black Hell or clear Heaven for the souls of the Willers;
Surely there is an eternal scrap-heap for the souls of the Slothful!
For the rejected of Heaven,
For the throw-outs of any incontemptible Hell.