Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but 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 are beating, Funeral marches to the grave

In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of life,

Be not dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife.

Trust no future, however pleasant! Let the dead bury its dead!

Act in the living present! Heart within God oérhead!

Lives of great men all remind us, We can make our lives sublime,

And departing, leave behind us,Footprints on the sands of time

Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing oér life's solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again

Let us, then, be up and doing, With our heart for any fate; 

Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

"The heights by great men reached and kept were not attained in sudden flight, but they, while their companions slept, were toiling upwards in the night."