Till it quite forgets its worries, and its vexing cares depart—
As the wind that sweeps the marshes where the fog hangs, chill and gray,
Moves the mists that mar the morning till it blows them all away.
So, whenever storm-clouds gather till they hide the sun from sight,
And it’s darker in the morning than it ought to be at night,
Then let’s sing about the sunshine that is on the other side
Of the darkest cloud, my comrade. Let the song ring far and wide
On the listening ear of others who climb the hill with you.
Till the rifted clouds are scattered, and the gray old world seems new.
(354)