LYRIC

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream! –
For the soul is dead that slumbers
And the Things are not same what they seem.

Life is real, Life is earnest!
And the grave is not it's goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest;
Was not spoken of the penetrator!
Penetrator… …

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end of way-ay-ay;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day-ay-ay

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
Our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the penetrator!
Penetrator… …

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing other life's and solemn main,
Forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take the heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fa-a-ate,
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to favor waiting penetrator!
Penetrator… …

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream! –
For the soul is dead that slumbers
And the Things are not same what they seem.

Life is real, Life is earnest!
And the grave is not it's goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest;
Was not spoken of the penetrator!
Penetrator… …

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