Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, But to act, that each to-morrow 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, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! 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 Footsteps on the sands of time; Footsteps, that perhaps another, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Let us, then, be up and doing, Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, Shall I have nought that is fair, saith he: Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves; It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves. My Lord has need of these flowerets gay, Dear tokens of the earth are they, They shall all bloom in fields of light, And saints, upon their garments white, And the mother gave, in tears and pain, The flowers she most did love; She knew she should find them all again In the fields of light above. |