Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Poems
|521.||The Village Blacksmith||1/3/2003|
|522.||An April Day||12/31/2002|
|525.||I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day||1/3/2004|
|526.||Footsteps Of Angels||12/31/2002|
|527.||The Arrow And The Song||12/31/2002|
|528.||A Gleam Of Sunshine||12/31/2002|
|529.||A Psalm Of Life||12/31/2002|
A Psalm Of Life
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 ...
Oft I remember those I have known
In other days, to whom my heart was lead
As by a magnet, and who are not dead,
But absent, and their memories overgrown
With other thoughts and troubles of my own,
As graves with grasses are, and at their head
The stone with moss and lichens so o'er spread,
Nothing is legible but the name alone.
And is it so with them? After long years.