Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low,
Is woman’s tenderness—how soon her woe!
Her lot is on you—silent tears to weep,
And patient smiles to wear through suffering’s hour,
And sumless riches, from affection’s deep,
To pour on broken reeds—a wasted shower!
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship. Therefore pray!
Her lot is on you—to be found untired,