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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, | 5 |
Am weary, thinking of your road! | |
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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 | 10 |
Have toiled among my fellow-men, | |
Am weary, thinking of your task. | |
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O little hearts! that throb and beat | |
With such impatient, feverish heat, | |
Such limitless and strong desires; | 15 |
Mine, that so long has glowed and burned, | |
With passions into ashes turned, | |
Now covers and conceals its fires. | |
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O little souls! as pure and white | |
And crystalline as rays of light | 20 |
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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