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. <br />If, up in Heaven, God understood <br />He'd let me for my Paradise <br />Make all things new and very good <br />And never make the same thing twice!<br /><br />Edith Nesbit<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/work-37/
