There is light and sun and hope on this side.

Now is the winter of our discontent, Made glorious summer by this son of York;And all the clouds that lour’d upon our houseIn the deep bosom of the ocean buried.Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths,Our bruised arms hung up for monuments,Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.  Will Shakespeare