Labor Day 2013 Quotes

Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, some done,
Has earned a night’s repose.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

No great achievement is possible without persistent work.

~ Bertrand Russell

There is no substitute for hard work.

~ Thomas Edison

A man is not paid for having a head and hands, but for using them.

~ Elbert Hubbard

I believe in the dignity of labor, whether with head or hand; that the world owes no man a living but that it owes every man an opportunity to make a living.

~ John D. Rockefeller

Under the spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith a mighty man is he
With large and sinewy hands.
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
He earns whatever he can,
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

There is no labor a person does that is undignified; if they do it right.

~ Bill Cosby

Thunder is good, thunder is impressive;
but it is lightning that does the work.

~ Mark Twain
If all the cars in the United States were placed end to end, it would probably be Labor Day Weekend.
Doug Larson

I believe that summer is our time, a time for the people, and that no politician should be allowed to speak to us during the summer. They can start talking again after Labor Day.
Lewis Black

Science has yet to isolate the Godiva Chocolate or Prada gene, but that doesn't mean your weakness for pricey swag isn't woven into your DNA. According to a new study of identical twins, it's less TV ads or Labor Day sales that make you buy the things you do than the tastes and temperaments that are already part of you at birth.
Jeffrey Kluger
My grandfather once told me that there were two kinds of people: those who do the work and those who take the credit. He told me to try to be in the first group; there was much less competition.

~ Indira Gandhi

Men are made stronger on realization that the helping hand they need is at the end of their own right arm.

~ Sidney J. Phillips

I'm a great believer in luck, and I find the harder I work, the more I have of it.

~ Thomas Jefferson

All labor that uplifts humanity has dignity and importance and should be undertaken with painstaking excellence.

~ Martin Luther King Jr.

Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life.

~ Confucius

The man who rolls up his shirt sleeves is rarely in danger of losing his shirt.

~ Anonymous

If a man will not work, he shall not eat.

~ 2 Thessalonians 3:10 (NIV)

A hundred times every day I remind myself that my inner and outer life depend on the labors of other men, living and dead, and that I must exert myself in order to give in the same measure as I have received and am still receiving.

~ Albert Einstein

Work is no disgrace; the disgrace is idleness.

~ Greek proverb

Before the reward there must be labor. You plant before you harvest. You sow in tears before you reap joy.

~ Ralph Ransom

Work hard, but not just to please your masters when they are watching. As slaves of Christ, do the will of God with all your heart. Work with enthusiasm, as though you were working for the Lord rather than for people.

~ Ephesians 6:6-7

The candidate out front on Labor Day has historically been the one who stayed ahead in November.
Peter Jennings

The late Estee Lauder says you can never wear white shoes after Labor Day. But of course, in today's world, that does not exist.
Andre Leon Talley

Rules like 'don't wear white after Labor Day' or 'shoes matching the handbag' are antiquated. Modern women should feel free to experiment.
Stacy London

I've got a really hard election. If you had a really hard election and it was after Labor Day would you go to North Carolina to a bunch of parties and glad-handing or would you stay home and work as hard as you know how to convince Missourians they should rehire you?
Claire McCaskill

When you have a country that can boast that more than 95 percent of its eligible workforce is employed and pumping money back into economy, that's exceptionally good news, especially as we prepare to observe Labor Day.
J. D. Hayworth

Labor Day is devoted to no man, living or dead, to no sect, race or nation.
Samuel Gompers

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Labor Day 2013 Carnival Parade

Catch all the color and excitement as millions of Brooklynites & New Yorkers line up along Eastern Parkway for the Brooklyn Labor Day parade on Monday, September 2, 2013. In 2013 year, the West Indian American Day Parade & Carnival celebrates its 45th anniversary as it continues to enjoy the distinction of being New York City's biggest cultural festivals by far. As in the past, count on crowds to be waving flags from Jamaica, Trinidad, Barbados, Grenada, Haiti, and other Caribbean nations in a joyful expression of ethnic heritage and cultural pride.

You don't have to be from the West Indies

Everyone's invited to take part in the spectacle of thousands of marchers in colorful costumes 'jumpin' down the parade route to the sounds of reggae and calypso. A special added-attraction : the aromas of native foods like Jamaican jerk chicken, Bajan fried flying fish, and other soul-satisfying treats at the city's biggest street festival. And that's just on Labor Day.

Takin' the weekend off

n fact, the entire weekend is devoted to special events — with a special Kiddie Carnival on Saturday, a Dimanche Gras (Fat Sunday) celebration, and an early Monday morning (starting around 3AM) J'Ouvert parade, a celebration of steel pan drums that kicks off the main parade beginning at 11AM. Around the Web, learn more about the West Indian Labor Day Carnival & Parade featuring history & fun facts, details and directions to the parade route, and tips & advice on best viewing areas ...as Brooklyn rocks to a Caribbean beat this Labor Day weekend :

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Labor Day Poems- Poetry 2013

“Find Work”

BY RHINA P. ESPAILLAT

I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl—
Life's little duties do—precisely
As the very least
Were infinite—to me—
—Emily Dickinson, #443

My mother’s mother, widowed very young

of her first love, and of that love’s first fruit,

moved through her father’s farm, her country tongue

and country heart anaesthetized and mute

with labor. So her kind was taught to do—

“Find work,” she would reply to every grief—

and her one dictum, whether false or true,

tolled heavy with her passionate belief.

Widowed again, with children, in her prime,

she spoke so little it was hard to bear

so much composure, such a truce with time

spent in the lifelong practice of despair.

But I recall her floors, scrubbed white as bone,

her dishes, and how painfully they shone.

===================================

Brass Spittoons

BY LANGSTON HUGHES

Clean the spittoons, boy.

      Detroit,  

      Chicago,  

      Atlantic City,

      Palm Beach.

Clean the spittoons.

The steam in hotel kitchens,

And the smoke in hotel lobbies,

And the slime in hotel spittoons:

Part of my life.  

      Hey, boy!  

      A nickel,  

      A dime,  

      A dollar,

Two dollars a day.

      Hey, boy!  

      A nickel,  

      A dime,  

      A dollar,  

      Two dollars

Buy shoes for the baby.

House rent to pay.

Gin on Saturday,

Church on Sunday.

      My God!

Babies and gin and church

And women and Sunday

All mixed with dimes and

Dollars and clean spittoons

And house rent to pay.

      Hey, boy!

A bright bowl of brass is beautiful to the Lord.  

Bright polished brass like the cymbals

Of King David’s dancers,

Like the wine cups of Solomon.

      Hey, boy!

A clean spittoon on the altar of the Lord.

A clean bright spittoon all newly polished—

At least I can offer that.

      Com’mere, boy!

===================================

===================================

What Work Is

BY PHILIP LEVINE

We stand in the rain in a long line

waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.

You know what work is—if you’re

old enough to read this you know what

work is, although you may not do it.

Forget you. This is about waiting,

shifting from one foot to another.

Feeling the light rain falling like mist

into your hair, blurring your vision

until you think you see your own brother

ahead of you, maybe ten places.

You rub your glasses with your fingers,

and of course it’s someone else’s brother,

narrower across the shoulders than

yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin

that does not hide the stubbornness,

the sad refusal to give in to

rain, to the hours of wasted waiting,

to the knowledge that somewhere ahead

a man is waiting who will say, “No,

we’re not hiring today,” for any

reason he wants. You love your brother,

now suddenly you can hardly stand

the love flooding you for your brother,

who’s not beside you or behind or

ahead because he’s home trying to  

sleep off a miserable night shift

at Cadillac so he can get up

before noon to study his German.

Works eight hours a night so he can sing

Wagner, the opera you hate most,

the worst music ever invented.

How long has it been since you told him

you loved him, held his wide shoulders,

opened your eyes wide and said those words,

and maybe kissed his cheek? You’ve never

done something so simple, so obvious,

not because you’re too young or too dumb,

not because you’re jealous or even mean

or incapable of crying in

the presence of another man, no,  

just because you don’t know what work is.

===================

Poet’s work

BY LORINE NIEDECKER

Grandfather  

   advised me:

         Learn a trade

I learned

   to sit at desk

         and condense

No layoff

   from this

         condensery

===================================

Shirt

BY ROBERT PINSKY

The back, the yoke, the yardage. Lapped seams,

The nearly invisible stitches along the collar

Turned in a sweatshop by Koreans or Malaysians

Gossiping over tea and noodles on their break

Or talking money or politics while one fitted

This armpiece with its overseam to the band

Of cuff I button at my wrist. The presser, the cutter,

The wringer, the mangle. The needle, the union,

The treadle, the bobbin. The code. The infamous blaze

At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven.

One hundred and forty-six died in the flames

On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes—

The witness in a building across the street

Who watched how a young man helped a girl to step

Up to the windowsill, then held her out

Away from the masonry wall and let her drop.

And then another. As if he were helping them up

To enter a streetcar, and not eternity.

A third before he dropped her put her arms  

Around his neck and kissed him. Then he held

Her into space, and dropped her. Almost at once

He stepped to the sill himself, his jacket flared

And fluttered up from his shirt as he came down,

Air filling up the legs of his gray trousers—

Like Hart Crane’s Bedlamite, “shrill shirt ballooning.”

Wonderful how the pattern matches perfectly

Across the placket and over the twin bar-tacked

Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme

Or a major chord.   Prints, plaids, checks,

Houndstooth, Tattersall, Madras. The clan tartans

Invented by mill-owners inspired by the hoax of Ossian,

To control their savage Scottish workers, tamed

By a fabricated heraldry: MacGregor,

Bailey, MacMartin. The kilt, devised for workers

To wear among the dusty clattering looms.

Weavers, carders, spinners. The loader,

The docker, the navvy. The planter, the picker, the sorter

Sweating at her machine in a litter of cotton

As slaves in calico headrags sweated in fields:

George Herbert, your descendant is a Black

Lady in South Carolina, her name is Irma

And she inspected my shirt. Its color and fit

And feel and its clean smell have satisfied

Both her and me. We have culled its cost and quality

Down to the buttons of simulated bone,

The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters

Printed in black on neckband and tail. The shape,

The label, the labor, the color, the shade. The shirt.

===================================

The Song of the Wage-slave

BY ROBERT W. SERVICE

When the long, long day is over, and the Big Boss gives me my pay,

I hope that it won't be hell-fire, as some of the parsons say.

And I hope that it won't be heaven, with some of the parsons I've met —

All I want is just quiet, just to rest and forget.

Look at my face, toil-furrowed; look at my calloused hands;

Master, I've done Thy bidding, wrought in Thy many lands —

Wrought for the little masters, big-bellied they be, and rich;

I've done their desire for a daily hire, and I die like a dog in a ditch.

I have used the strength Thou hast given, Thou knowest I did not shirk;

Threescore years of labor — Thine be the long day's work.

And now, Big Master, I'm broken and bent and twisted and scarred,

But I've held my job, and Thou knowest, and Thou wilt not judge me hard.

Thou knowest my sins are many, and often I've played the fool —

Whiskey and cards and women, they made me the devil's tool.

I was just like a child with money; I flung it away with a curse,

Feasting a fawning parasite, or glutting a harlot's purse;

Then back to the woods repentant, back to the mill or the mine,

I, the worker of workers, everything in my line.

Everything hard but headwork (I'd no more brains than a kid),

A brute with brute strength to labor, doing as I was bid;

Living in camps with men-folk, a lonely and loveless life;

Never knew kiss of sweetheart, never caress of wife.

A brute with brute strength to labor, and they were so far above —

Yet I'd gladly have gone to the gallows for one little look of Love.

I, with the strength of two men, savage and shy and wild —

Yet how I'd ha' treasured a woman, and the sweet, warm kiss of a child!

Well, 'tis Thy world, and Thou knowest. I blaspheme and my ways be rude;

But I've lived my life as I found it, and I've done my best to be good;

I, the primitive toiler, half naked and grimed to the eyes,

Sweating it deep in their ditches, swining it stark in their styes;

Hurling down forests before me, spanning tumultuous streams;

Down in the ditch building o'er me palaces fairer than dreams;

Boring the rock to the ore-bed, driving the road through the fen,

Resolute, dumb, uncomplaining, a man in a world of men.

Master, I've filled my contract, wrought in Thy many lands;

Not by my sins wilt Thou judge me, but by the work of my hands.

Master, I've done Thy bidding, and the light is low in the west,

And the long, long shift is over ... Master, I've earned it — Rest.

Enjoy the Labor Day Poems and stay with us with fantastic stuff on Labor Day 2013

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Labor Day 2013 Cute Pictures



"Happy Labor Day to you too! We certainly deserve this for all that we do!" A cute labor day card to send your warm thanks to your friends who have sent you their wishes on labor day.



Funny cute Happy Labor Day Weekend Banner Printable Graphic: comic workers, construction worker, farm girl, and silly janitor under a text banner Happy Labor day.

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