Where I grew up, there were streets and schools named after Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Not because he had ever lived there, but probably because of his poem The Song of Hiawatha and its geographical references. Longfellow was a celebrity in his time, though he had his share of highbrow critics who were dismissive of his popularity. Celebrity or not, I like his poetry.

A Psalm of Life
by Henry Wadworth Longfellow

What the Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist

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.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
  Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
  Finds us farther than to-day.

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,
  In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
  Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
  Let the dead Past bury its dead!
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
  Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
  Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
  Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
  With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing
  Learn to labor and to wait.