Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — 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!