Sunday, November 21, 2010

A Psalm of Life


A Psalm of Life

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

What the heart of the young man said to the psalmist


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 to-morrow Find us farther than to-day.


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, howe’er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,— act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o’erhead!


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 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.

What the Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist

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 to-morrow    Finds us farther than to-day.  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, howe'er pleasant!    Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,--act in the living Present!    Heart within, and God o'erhead!  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 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.


2 comments:

Lady Jane Grey said...

I really like that poem, and I really like that painting. (I really like you too actually, but I would never admit that in public...)

Guy Mayhem said...

Well, go ahead Longfellow! That's a great poem. Never read it. There's a literary chest bump in your future. Get into it.