See, Where His Difficult Way That Old Man Wins Bent By A Load Of Mulberry Leaves! Most Hard Appears 'His' Lot, To The Small Worm'S Compared, For Whom His Toil With Early Day Begins. Acknowledging No Task-Master, At Will (As If Her Labour And Her Ease Were Twins) 'She' Seems To Work, At Pleasure To Lie Still; And Softly Sleeps Within The Thread She Spins. So Fare They, The Man Serving As Her Slave. Ere Long Their Fates Do Each To Each Conform: Both Pass Into New Being, But The Worm, Transfigured, Sinks Into A Hopeless Grave; 'His' Volant Spirit Will, He Trusts, Ascend To Bliss Unbounded, Glory Without End.