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