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