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 tomorrow Find us farther than today.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums,…