Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote “What the hear=
t of the young man said to the psal=
mist” . . .
.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life&=
nbsp;is but an empty dream!
For the soul&n=
bsp;is dead that slumbers,
And things are =
not what they seem.
&nbs=
p;
Life is real! Life is =
;earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was no=
t spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not&n=
bsp;sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But&=
nbsp;to act, that each to-morrow
Find us f=
arther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is&n=
bsp;fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and&=
nbsp;brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beat=
ing
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world=
’s broad field of battle,
In the biv=
ouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven&nbs=
p;cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no =
;Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead P=
ast bury its dead!
Act,— act in the&=
nbsp;living Present!
Heart within, and God o=
217;erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We&=
nbsp;can make our lives sublime,
And, departing=
, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands&=
nbsp;of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing&nb=
sp;o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn&nb=
sp;and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take =
heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,With a heart for any fate;
Still achievin=
g, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to&n=
bsp;wait.
~~
Dr Bob Griffin
[email protected]=
www.grif.net
"Jesus Know=
s Me, This I Love!"
m