| Life is but an empty dream
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| For the soul is dead that slumbers
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| And things are not just as they seem
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| Life is real, life is earnest
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| And the grave is not its goal
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| «Dust thou art, to dust return»
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| Was not spoken of the soul
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| Not enjoyment, nor in sorrow
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| Is our destined end or way
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| But to act, that each tomorrow
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| Finds us farther than today
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| Art is long, and time is fleeting
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| And our hearts grow stout and brave
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| Still, like muffled drums, are beating
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| Funeral marches to the grave
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| Trust no future, however pleasant
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| Let the dead past bury its dead
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| Act, act in the living presence
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| Heart within, and God overhead |