As lily grows up easily,
In modest, gentle dignity,
To sweet perfection,
— So grew she,
As easily!

Or as the rose,
That takes no care,
Will open out, on sunny air,
Bloom after bloom
Fair after fair;
Just so did she,
— As carelessly!

She is our torment without end!
She is our enemy, our friend!
Our joy, our woe!
And she will send
Madness, or glee,
To you, or me,
— And endlessly!