Between the voids of happiness and the bends of sadness, you will always find someone who follows you in secret.

 

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,

And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes:
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise:
Arise, arise.
-Shakespeare