Life is but an empty dream
For the soul is dead that slumbers
And things are not just as they seem
Life is real, life is earnest

And the grave is not its goal
Dust thou art, to dust return
Was not spoken of the soul
Not enjoyment, nor in sorrow

Is our destined end or way
But to act, that each tomorrow
Finds us farther than today
Art is long, and time is fleeting

And our hearts grow stout and brave
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave
Trust no future, however pleasant

Let the dead past bury its dead
Act, act in the living presence
Heart within, and God overhead