A Psalm of Life
What the heart of the young man said to the palmist
Tell me not in mournful numbers
Life is but an empty dream
For the soul is deal 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 spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than to-day.
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 bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strike!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, act on 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 in the sands of time;
Footprints that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and ship wrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Srill achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
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