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 its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoke of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end our way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.
Art is long, and Time is fleeeting,
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 bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no future, however pleasant!
Let the dead past bury its dead!
Act-act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God overhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives subline,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints in the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing over 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, and still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
LONGFELLOW
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