Tell me not in mournful numbers
That 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!
The grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returneth"
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 further than today.

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 within 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.

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow