by
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
What the heart of the young man said to the palmist
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 returnist
Was not spoken of the soul

Not enjoyment and not sorrow
Is our destined  end or way
But to act that each tomorrow
Finds us farther than today

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime
And departing leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time
Harold Kinander