What folly to tear one’s hair in sorrow, just as if grief could be assuaged by baldness.—Cicero.
He growled at morning, noon and night,
And trouble sought to borrow;
On days when all the skies were bright
He knew ’twould storm to-morrow.
A thought of joy he could not stand
And struggled to resist it;
Though sunshine dappled all the land
This sorry pessimist it.
Be at war with your vices, at peace with your neighbors, and let every new year find you a better man.—Franklin.