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 and way;

But to act, that each to-morrow

Find us further than to-day.

Lives of true men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints which perhaps another,

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

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.