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,
        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
    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;
    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
        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!


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