With Worldlings, ever reticent of speech;
With her own people, Folly's prone to preach.
Oft at the tender twilight's peaceful pause,
Careless of censure, as of cheap applause,
She seeks the lonely haunts of workingmen —
Some sculptor's, painter's, priest's, or poet's den —
And wiles the dolorous midnight grief away
With words of cheer that Wisdom dare not say.