  It is hard to tell at the dawn of day What the sunset shades may bring, The plans we make may be astray, And our treasured hopes take wing. We know not what strange environment May dwarf our most cherished plan, Or what obstructions may be sent To defeat our ends and aim. Though we scorn the thought that fickle Fate Has Destiny in her hand, We all pay tribute at her gate And bow low at her command. In spite of all the powers we boast Of independent action, An intervening hand may cost Our progress great detraction. Few, few there be who lack the power To shape their own destiny, If each will improve th' passing hour To its full capacity. |
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