Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but a dream!
For the soul is dead that's slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real-life is earnest-
And the grave is not it's 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 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, however pleasant!
Let the dead past bury it's dead!
Act-act in glorious present!
Heart within and brain o'er head!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime
And, departing, leave behind us
Footsteps on the sands of time
Footsteps, that perhaps another
Sailing over life solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother
Shall take heart again
Let us be up and doing
With a heart of any fate
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait