IT is a weary road we wend, through this dim vale of tears; it harder grows as we ascend, accumulating years. The pilgrim murmurs as he walks, in voice of doleful pitch, "I spoiled my foot on yonder rocks, and fell into that ditch. The dust gets in my aching glims, I'm pierced by grievous thorns; the dogs come out and bite my limbs, cows hook me with their horns. All things terrestrial conspire to make my life a cross; I'm frozen, drowned, and singed by fire, and I'm a total loss." Thus through his pilgrimage he goes, the fretful mortal guy; he's always thinking of his woes, and so they multiply. I find this life a joyous jaunt, admire its every curve; it brings me everything I want—or all that I deserve. For I am looking all the time for cheerful things and gay, and I consider it a crime to hunt for grief all day. A noble painting cheers my mind, inspires me for the game, and I don't strain my eyes to find a flyspeck on the frame. |