Recollect, as well you may,
(You that pine and brood in sorrow),
If there's little luck to-day,
More is left to come to-morrow;
Every present grows to past
Almost while the grumbler heeds it:
But, for pleasure made to last,
Look to where the future feeds it.

Coming chances must be more,
(Reason will herself remind us),
And all prizes crowd before
If the blanks are all behind us;
Therefore never go downcast,
But let cares sit all the lighter,
Since a dark and luckless past
Argues all the future brighter.