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!

THE END.

Cambridge: Stereotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.