Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead who slumbers,
and things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is ernest! 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 today.
Art is long, and time is fleeting,
and 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 in 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.
