WEARINESS.

O little feet, that such long years Must wander on through doubts and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load! I, nearer to the way-side 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!