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!