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.
THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY See, the fire is sinking low, Dusky red the embers glow,
While above them still I cower, While a moment more I linger, Though the clock, with lifted finger, Points beyond the midnight, hour.
Sings the blackened log a tune Learned in some forgotten June
From a school-boy at his play, When they, both were young together, 10 Heart of youth and summer weather Making all their holiday.
And the night-wind rising, hark! How above there in the dark,
In the midnight and the snow, Ever wilder, fiercer, grander, Like the trumpets of Iskander, All the noisy chimneys blow!
Every quivering tongue of flame, Seems to murmur some great name, Seems to say to me, "Aspire!" But the night-wind answers, "Hollow Are the visions that you follow, Into darkness sinks your fire!"
Then the flicker of the blaze Gleams on volumes of old days, Written by masters of the art, Loud through whose majestic pages Rolls the melody of ages,
Throb the harp-strings of the heart. 3o
And again the tongues of flame Start exulting and exclaim:
"These are prophets, bards, and seers;
In the horoscope of nations,
Like ascendant constellations,
They control the coming years."
I enter, and I see thee in the gloom Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine! And strive to make my steps keep pace with thine.
The air is filled with some unknown perfume;
The congregation of the dead make room For thee to pass; the votive tapers shine; Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's groves of pine
The hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb.
From the confessionals I hear arise Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies, And lamentations from the crypts below; And then a voice celestial that begins 40 With the pathetic words, "Although your sins
As scarlet be," and ends with "as the snow."
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