And angel-voices murmur words of cheer,
Still, life's a cloud, forever hanging nigh,
Forever o'er our winding pathways spread,
Ready to blacken on some saddened eye,
And hurl its bolts on some defenseless head!
Yes, there are lives that seem to know no ill;
Paths that seem straight, with naught of thorn or hill.
The bright and glorious sun, each welcome day,
Flashes upon the flowers that deck their way,
And the soft zephyr sings a lullaby,