File1, 2, & 3 for dagyeman:


INFO300

File1:

Escape me?
Never---
Beloved!
Whiel I am I, you are you,
so long as the world contains us both,
Me the love and you the loth
While the one eludes, must the other pursue.
My life is a fault at last, I fear:
It seems to much like a fate, indeed!
Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed.
But what if i fail of my purpose here?
It is but to keep the nerves at strain,
To dry ones eyes and laugh at a fall,
and, baffled, get up and begin again,--
so the chace takes up ones life ' thats all.
While, look but once from your farthest bound
At me so deep in the dust and dark,
No sooner the old hope goes to ground
than a new one, straight to the self-same mark,
I shape me---
Ever
Removed!

File2:

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 grace 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 fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the worlds 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 '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 lifes 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.


File3:

O me! O life!...of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless--of
cities fill'd with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself,
Of eyes that vainly crave the light-- of the
objects mean--of the
struggle ever renew'd;
of the poor results of all--of the plodding
and sordid crowds i see
around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest-
with the rest me
intertwined;
The question, O me! sad, recurring--
What good amid these, O me, O life?

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