THERE’S a time to be jolly, a time to repent,

A season for folly, a season for Lent,

The first as the worst we too often regard;

The rest as the best, but our judgment is hard.

There are snows in December and Roses in June,

There’s darkness at midnight and sunshine at noon;

But, were there no sorrow, no storm-cloud or rain,

Who’d care for the morrow with beauty again.

The world is a picture both gloomy and bright,

And grief is the shadow and pleasure the light,

And neither should smother the general tone:

For where were the other if either were gone?

The valley is lovely; the mountain is drear,

Its summit is hidden in mist all the year;

But gaze from the heaven, high over all weather,

And mountain and valley are lovely together.

I have learned to love Lucy, though faded she be;

If my next love be lovely, the better for me.

By the end of next summer, I’ll give you my oath,

It was best, after all, to have flirted with both.