Promise of sunshine, not so prone to fail.

So to us sojourners in life’s low vale,

The smiles of fortune flatter to deceive,

While still the fates the web of misery weave;

So hope exultant spreads her airy sail,

And from the present gloom the soul conveys

To distant summers, and far happier days.

H. K. White.

Still on its march, unnoticed and unfelt,

Moves on our being. We do live and breathe,