Weariness

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!