A Fragment

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    Awake! arise! the hour is late!
        Angels are knocking at thy door!
    They are in haste and cannot wait,
        And once departed come no more.

    Awake! arise! the athlete's arm
        Loses its strength by too much rest;
    The fallow land, the untilled farm
        Produces only weeds at best.