| |
| O LITTLE feet! that such long years | |
| Must wander on through hopes and fears, | |
| Must ache and bleed beneath your load; | |
| I, nearer to the wayside inn | |
| Where toil shall cease and rest begin, | 5 |
| Am weary, thinking of your road! | |
| |
| O little hands! that, weak or strong, | |
| Have still to serve or rule so long, | |
| Have still so long to give or ask; | |
| I, who so much with book and pen | 10 |
| Have toiled among my fellow-men, | |
| Am weary, thinking of your task. | |
| |
| O little hearts! that throb and beat | |
| With such impatient, feverish heat, | |
| Such limitless and strong desires; | 15 |
| Mine, that so long has glowed and burned, | |
| With passions into ashes turned, | |
| Now covers and conceals its fires. | |
| |
| O little souls! as pure and white | |
| And crystalline as rays of light | 20 |
| Direct from heaven, their source divine; | |
| Refracted through the mist of years, | |
| How red my setting sun appears, | |
| How lurid looks this soul of mine! | |
| |
