Since sorrow never comes too late And happiness too swiftly flies.

The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, / That never mused on sorrow but its own.

Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me;
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.

Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish; Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal

Earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.

What else does anxiety about the future bring you but sorrow upon sorrow?