WHEN I am busying about, br Sewing on buttons, tapes, and strings, br Hanging the week's wet washing out br Or ironing the children's things, br Sweeping and dusting, cleaning grates, br Scrubbing the dresser or the floors, br Washing the greasy dinner plates, br Scouring the brasses on the doors-- br br I wonder what it's all about, br And when did people first begin br To keep the dirt and wornness out br And keep the wholesome comfort in: br How long it is since women bore br This round of wash and make and mend, br And what God makes us do it for br And whether it will ever end! br br When God began to do His work br He made a new thing every day-- br Even now He is not one to shirk, br But makes things, always some new way br He made the earth, and sky, and sun, br The creatures of the sea and wood, br And when his first week's work was done br He saw that it was very good. br br But He--for all He worked so fast br To finish air, and wave, and shore, br Knew that this work of His would last br For ever and for evermore. br On Saturday night He was content, br He knew that Monday would not bring br Need for another firmament, br Another set of everything. br br But though my work is easier far br Than making sky and sea and sun, br It's harder than God's labours are, br Because my work is never done. br I sweep and churn, save and contrive, br I bake and brew, I don't complain, br But every Monday morning I've br Last Monday's work to do again. br br I'm good at work--I work away; br Always the same my work must go; br The flowers grow different every day, br That's why I like to see them grow.