Our lives, discoloured with our present woes, <br />May still grow white and shine with happier hours. <br />So the pure limped stream, when foul with stains <br />Of rushing torrents and descending rains, <br />Works itself clear, and as it runs refines, <br />till by degrees the floating mirror shines; <br />Reflects each flower that on the border grows, <br />And a new heaven in it's fair bosom shows.<br /><br />Joseph Addison<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hope-411/
