Breadcrumbs:

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 The leaves of memory seemed to make
  A mournful rustling in the dark.

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Believe me, every heart has its secret sorrows which the world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad.

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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.

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