Tell me not in mournful numbers'Life is but an empty 
dream'
For the soul is dead that slumbers
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'
Wasn't spoken of the soul
Not enjoyment and not sorrow
Is our destined end or way
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us further than today
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
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
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of--
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart--
Let us, then, be up and doing
With a heart for any fate
Still achieving, still pursuing
Learn to labor and to wait