I don't want the kind of theater that I love and grew up seeing to die out.
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 tomorrowFind us farther than today.Art is long, and Time is fleeting,And our heats, though stout and brave,Still, like muffled drums, are beatingFuneral 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 deadAct,- act in the living Present!Heart within, and God o'erhead.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.
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days were bright red, and every time we kissed there was anotherappleto slice into pieces.Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it's noon,that meanswe're inconsolable.Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.These our bodies, possessed by light.Tell me we'll never get used to it.