When contemporary composer John Muehleisen set Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem “A Psalm of Life” to music, he knew that the poet was not talking about actual weeping numbers in the first line, perhaps a number 7 with tears dripping from the end of the top bar. No. Here the word “number” means a piece, selection, or verse. When we refer to the songs in a Broadway show, for instance, we often call them “number,.” as in “a showstopping song-and-dance number.” Therefore, if we piece together the title, “A Psalm of Life,” the subtitle, “What the heart of the young man said to the Psalmist,” and the first two lines (“Tell me not in mournful numbers/Life is but an empty dream”), we get a message of hope, optimism, and action.
So who are the “young man” and the “Psalmist”? The first is pretty easy: the young man is simply someone who is ready to get going on whatever that life has for him, a stand-in for the poet himself, who was 29 when the poem was published. The “psalmist” is probably not meant to be one of the literal writers of the Old Testament book of Psalms. Longfellow had indeed developed an interest in Judaism at the time of the poem, though, which may have led to his use of the word. To me, though, and I can’t give any support for this idea other than my own imagination, I picture the Psalmist as an old man looking back on his life and saying that it was empty and useless. The young man vigorously disputes that notion, in essence saying, “Don’t tell me that!”
Longfellow himself said that the poem was “a transcript of my thoughts and feelings at the time I wrote, and of the conviction therein expressed, that Life is something more than an idle dream.“ The specific situation that produced the poem was a long talk with a friend about “matters, which lie near one’s soul:–and how to bear one’s self doughtily in Life’s battle: and make the best of things.” Longfellow’s first wife had recently died, and this tragedy too played a part in the poem, as he tried to convince himself that he had “a heart for any fate.” One principle idea is the key to the overall meaning of the poem: That while man’s body goes to dust, man’s soul lives beyond the grave, and that our actions in the present can have future influence. The most famous verse, containing the most famous line, is:
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints in the sands of time.
Because this verse, especially the “footprints in the sands of time” phrase, has become such a cliché, it is easy to lose sight of the broader context of Longfellow’s image, which comes in the next verse:
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
It’s not that we simply want to be remembered after death, but that we want to be a help to those who come after us and are struggling with their own lives.
The contrast between soul and body and between action and inaction plays out consistently in the poem. To live solely as a physical being, not taking into account one’s soul and one’s influence, is to be like “dumb, driven cattle.” Other phrases that stand out along this line are:
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
(So it is only the body that returns to dust.)
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
(It’s important to re-emphasize here that these lines are referring to man’s physical heart. From that perspective, it is completely true, albeit perhaps somewhat depressing, to say that each heartbeat brings us one step closer to the grave. It’s the same idea as in many wedding vows when the words are said, “Till death us do part.” Even on such a joyful occasion there is a reminder that all human endeavors on this earth come to an end.)
On the other hand, while we cannot trust the future or become mired in the past, we can act today, in the “living present,” the only time we have. We can trust in our “heart within,” not our physical hearts this time but our souls, and “God o’erhead.” It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to say to ourselves every morning, “Let us then be up and doing,” while realizing that we may have to do some waiting along with our labor. It’s fashionable nowadays in some circles to make fun of such earnestness, but I can’t agree with that blasé and cynical attitude.
The composer of the wonderful music to go with these words, John Muehleisen, is very much an active part of the American choral music scene. He has served as composer-in-residence to several groups and is heavily involved in the writing of commissioned works. This piece was originally written in honor of the 25th anniversary of the conductor of the Quincy Symphony Chorus in Illinois, Dr. Phyllis Robertson. Here’s a part of the sheet music notes: “Following phone and email discussions with Dr. Robertson, Muehleisen sought to find a text that captured her spirit of living life to the fullest, which he found in Longfellow’s stirring poem, A Psalm of Life.” Isn’t that fascinating? I love it when I can find something about the actual origin of a creative work. Here’s the video of my own choir’s performance, with great sound but not so great picture quality:
If you’re curious about this whole commissioning process, here’s a post a I wrote on that very subject:
“How Does This Whole Commissioning Process Work?”
And here’s the text of the poem in full:
A Psalm of Life
What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist.
