Longfellow: A psalm of life

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN
SAID TO THE PSALMIST

Tell me not, in mournful number,
	Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead the slumbers,
	And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
	And the grave is not its goal;
Dust though 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 to-morrow
	Find us farther that to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
	And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled dreams, 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 deat Past bury its deat!
Act,-act in the living Present!
	Heart within, and God o'rhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
	We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave henigh 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 agian.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
	With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pukrsuing,
	Learn to labor and to wait.

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