Of what so slowly must expire.
She in her agelong toil and care
Persistent, wearies not nor stays,
Mocking alike hope and despair.
—Ah, but she too can mock our praise,
Enchanted on her brighter days,
Days, that the thought of grief refuse,
Days that are one with human art,
Worthy of the Virgilian muse,
Fit for the gaiety of Mozart.