WORK.

WHEN I am busying about,

Sewing on buttons, tapes, and strings,

Hanging the week's wet washing out

Or ironing the children's things,

Sweeping and dusting, cleaning grates,

Scrubbing the dresser or the floors,

Washing the greasy dinner plates,

Scouring the brasses on the doors —

I wonder what it's all about,

And when did people first begin

To keep the dirt and wornness out

And keep the wholesome comfort in:

How long it is since women bore

This round of wash and make and mend,

And what God makes us do it for

And whether it will ever end!

When God began to do His work

He made a new thing every day —

Even now He is not one to shirk,

But makes things, always some new way

He made the earth, and sky, and sun,

The creatures of the sea and wood,

And when his first week's work was done

He saw that it was very good.

But He — for all He worked so fast

To finish air, and wave, and shore,

Knew that this work of His would last

For ever and for evermore.

On Saturday night He was content,

He knew that Monday would not bring

Need for another firmament,

Another set of everything.

But though my work is easier far

Than making sky and sea and sun,

It's harder than God's labours are,

Because my work is never done.

I sweep and churn, save and contrive,

I bake and brew, I do n't complain,

But every Monday morning I've

Last Monday's work to do again.

I'm good at work — I work away;

Always the same my work must go;

The flowers grow different every day,

That's why I like to see them grow.

If, up in Heaven, God understood

He'd let me for my Paradise

Make all things new and very good

And never make the same thing twice!