Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was read more

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. 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.

The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
. . . .
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The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
. . . .
The little waves, with their soft, white hands,
Efface the footprints in the sands,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
and read more

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.

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in read more

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year,
I listen, and it cheers me long.

In the thickets and the meadows
Piped the bluebird, the Owaissa.
On the summit of the lodges
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In the thickets and the meadows
Piped the bluebird, the Owaissa.
On the summit of the lodges
Sang the robin, the Opechee.