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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - Voices Of The Night : A Psalm Of Life
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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, 
    Is our destined end or way; 
  But to act, that each 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`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, still pursuing, 
    Learn to labor and to wait.
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