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

Finds 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
ln 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

Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brothers

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.