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| Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream!-- For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not it's goal; Dust thou art, to dust returneth , Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each tomorrow Find us further than today. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. |
| In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouc of life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle, Be a hero in the strife! Trust no future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead past bury it's dead! Act,--Act in the living present! Heart within and, God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life,s solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. |
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| A Psalm of Life What the Heart of the Young Man said to the Psalmist By: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
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