THE clouds are gray and grim today, the winds are sadly sighing; it
seems like fall, and over all a sheet of gloom is lying. The dreary rain
beats on the pane, and sounds a note of sorrow; but what’s the odds? The
genial gods will bring us joy tomorrow. We have the mumps, the doctor
humps himself around to cure it; we’re on the blink and often think we
simply can’t endure it; to all who list we groan, I wist, and tell a
hard-luck story; but why be vexed? Week after next we’ll all be
hunkydory. The neighbor folks are tiresome blokes, they bore us and
annoy us; with such folks near it’s amply clear that no one can be
joyous; things would improve if they would move—we really do not need
them; but let’s be gay! They’ll move away, and worse ones will succeed
them. The world seems sad, sometimes, my lad, and life is a disaster;
but do not roar; for every sore tomorrow brings a plaster. The fool, he
kicks against the pricks, all optimism scorning; the wise man goes his
way—he knows joy cometh in the morning.
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