Mothers, wives and maids, These be the tools with which priests manage men.

Out of your whole life give but a moment! All of your life that has gone before, All to come after it, -so you ignore, So you make perfect the present, condense, In a rapture of rage, for perfection's endowment, Thought and feeling and soul and sense.

The body sprang At once to the height, and stayed; but the soul,-no!

Graved inside of it, "Italy".

Strike when thou wilt, the hour of rest, but let my last days be my best.

What's come to perfection perishes. Things learned on earth we shall practice in heaven; Works done least rapidly Art most cherishes.

Mothers, wives and maids, These be the tools with which priests manage men.