  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; 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! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. |
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