“…such gardens are not made, by singing: ‘Oh, how beautiful,’ …”

This from the Rudyard Kipling poem, For the Glory of the Garden.

Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made
By singing: “Oh, how beautiful,” and sitting in the shade
While better men than we go out and start their working lives
At grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner-knives.
There’s not a pair of legs so thin, there’s not a head so thick,
There’s not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick
But it can find some needful job that’s crying to be done,
For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth every one.

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