burtonyin

A Psalm of Life

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

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
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is

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Poem

I stood next to the ocean at midnight letting the Atlantic whisper in an unknown language to my soul.

With each crashing wave a message to my unconscious was sent, an urning was made only to be satisfied by hearing the sweet sounds of a dark void that calls to me.

Sure you can hear the voice coming from a conk shell but you can’t listen, a conk shell doesn’t talk to your soul it just relays the message.

written by: Burtonyin