As you have done, this many a year.
It is hard on you; MOZART or AUBER
Might fail your depression to cheer—
Had you taken the draught named of Glauber,
You could scarce look duller, my dear
II.
Our times, dear, are truly Titanic,
Perfection seems Science's goal—
Dim, distant, dark Science's goal—
But we're still a bit given to panic.