THOUGH now and then our feet descend to byways of despair, we nearly
always in the end land right side up with care. I’ve seen a thousand
frenzied guys declare that all was lost, there was no hope beneath the
skies, this life was but a frost. And then next year I’d see them scoot
around in motor cars, each one a-holding in his snoot the richest of
cigars. I’ve seen men at the wailing place declare they were undone; no
more the cold world could they face, their course, they said, was run.
Again I’d see them prance along, all burbling with delight; whatever in
their lives was wrong, became at last all right. And so it’s
foolishness, my friend, to weep or tear your hair; we nearly always, in
the end, land right side up with care. Some call it luck, some
providence, and some declare it fate; but there’s a kind, o’erruling
sense that makes our tangles straight; and there are watchful eyes that
mark our movements as we roam; a hand extended in the dark to guide us
safely home. In what direction do you wend? You’ll find the helper
there; we nearly always, in the end, land right side up with care.
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