A Pslam of Life
         by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
      
      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 spoken of the soul.
 
      Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
      I s our destined and our way;
      But to act, that much to-morrow.
      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 strife!
 
      Trust no future, howe’er pleasant,
      Let the dead past bury its 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 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.