"A watched pot never boils." Though the pot be the pot of happiness, the proverb still holds true.

Sit down, sad soul, and count
The moments flying:
Come,—tell the sweet amount
That's lost by sighing!
How many smiles—a score?
Then laugh, and count no more;
For day is dying.

Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,
And no more measure
The flight of Time, nor weep
The loss of leisure;
But here, by this lone stream,
Lie down with us and dream
Of starry treasure.

We dream: do thou the same:
We love—forever;
We laugh; yet few we shame,
The gentle, never.
Stay, then, till Sorrow dies;
Then—hope and happy skies
Are thine forever!

Bryan Waller Procter.