A PSALM OF LIFE BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLOW Tell me not in mournful numbers Life is but an empty dream! For the soul dead that slumbers And things are not what they seem. real! earnest! grave its goal Dust thou art to dust returnest Was spoken of soul. Not enjoyment and sorrow Is our destined end or way But act each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art long Time fleeting hearts though stout brave Still like muffled drums beating Funeral marches grave. In world’s broad field battle bivouac Life Be dumb driven cattle! a hero strife! Trust no Future howe’er pleasant! Let Past bury dead! Act—act living Present! Heart within God o’erhead! Lives great men all remind We can make lives sublime And departing leave behind Footprints on sands time Footprints perhaps another Sailing o’er life’s solemn main forlorn shipwrecked brother Seeing shall take heart again. us then be up doing With for any fate Still achieving still pursuing Learn labor wait.