They err who measure life by years
With false or thoughtless tongue.
Some hearts grow old before their time;
Others are always young.
'Tis not the number of the lines
On life's fast-filling page,
'Tis not the pulse's added throbs
Which constitute their age.
Some souls are serfs among the free,
While others nobly thrive;
They stand just where their fathers stood,
Dead, even while they live.
Others, all spirit, heart, and sense,
Theirs the mysterious power
To live in thrills of joy or woe
A twelve-month in an hour.
He liveth long who liveth well!
All other life is short and vain;
He liveth longest who can tell
Of living most for heavenly gain.
He liveth long who liveth well!
All else is being flung away;
He liveth longest who can tell
Of true things truly done each day.