I am looking for a poem I am trying to recall from High School (1953).

It contains the lines - "Art is long and time is fleeting and the grave is not it's goal, dust thou art to dust returneth was not spoken of the soul".

Any assistance would be appreciated. If I could find Miss Arnold, my English teacher from the 50's, she could surely tell me the answer.

Regards,

The poem is by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. It is called 'Resignation' and the whole verse reads:

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.

Pete Crowther

I should also have said that the line 'And the grave is not its goal' comes from another poem by the same author - Longfellow - entitled A Psalm of Life:

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 the goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Pete Crowther

I got a bit confused by whifflesnook's response. Then got even more confused to discover I have to register with a password to get onto this new forum, but still appear to have access to the old ones in that my name etc appear in the little box at the bottom of each thread, all ready for my posts. Maybe I shouldn't holiday in Ireland - the Yorkshire leprechauns must have got jealous and been at my computer while I was away. They sulked for a couple of days before I went and wouldn't let me on to emule at all.

Anyway - I'm sorted now - 'Art is long . .. .grave' as quoted by whifflesnook is the fourth verse of Psalm of Life, and not from Resignation (which you'll find at [www.bartleby.com] if you want to check). Bud Howard quoted the first line of that verse and the last three lines of the second verse. Here's the whole thing:

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! 5
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; 10
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find 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 15
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! 20

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 25
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, 30
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, 35
Learn to labor and to wait.

However, I hadn't read Resignation before, and enjoyed it so am greateful to whifflesnook for bringing it to my attention.

You really think they were Leprechauns? Well, in that case I must officially report their first appearance in the South of France, 'cause I've had exactly the same problem as you.
Mia

Sure and begorrah are you not aware darling people that Leprechauns only appear in the Emerald Isle itself....Eire aka the Republic of Ireland...sure it must have been those pesky gremlins that messed up your computers...

M. I Moore-Rouse

Given that Ireland and Yorkshire were both under the Vikings maybe they moved a few from one to the other, (at least one breeding pair I assume)

I had the same password problem earlier here in Dallas, but I blamed it on the Republicans.

BudHoward's request and a recent question about Thanatopsis brings back fond memories of dedicated English teachers who required memorization of poems. As a grade school student, it was treated merely as an assignment to be completed and forgotten. But through the years these poems have been a comfort and pleasure to me. I'm reminded of the Amish saying, "Too soon old, too late smart."