It's just not in me tonight, all; instead, I offer you T.S. Eliot, who frequently makes bad days better. The except below is from his poem The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock; clicking on the excerpt itself will take you to the poem in its entirety.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
"And time for all the works and days of hands" has been a favorite line for a long, long time. How lovely.