Tuesday, May 07, 2013

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.

Thursday, May 02, 2013

The Wayfarer by Stephen Crane

THE WAYFARER,
 Perceiving the pathway to truth,
 Was struck with astonishment.
 It was thickly grown with weeds.
 “Ha,” he said,
 “I see that none has passed here
 In a long time.”
 Later he saw that each weed
 Was a singular knife.
 “Well,” he mumbled at last,
 “Doubtless there are other roads.”