Ever in stress, she will forget her tasks,
Yawn wide at night, and then recall that day
On which her work was due: so then she asks,
Unlucky one, her prof for some delay.
And, O!, the work to catch up from behind.
No rest for her, except when she neglects:
Young ardor, curiousity, her mind
Winning o'er gardening of her intellects.
And though she has such trouble here in school,
Yet her I love, and think myself no fool.