Weariness by Longfellow.

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 reset
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 ;
Min 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 !


________________________



This morning I was returning from a long journey and I saw a man collecting recyclables from the stoop of an extravagant house. Having said hello, he asked me if I had a garden of my own, and I told him, no, but I wish I did.

After a trek of so many miles, it is freeing to think that I might still yet invest in the ground, in the peace of the springtime and the possibility of new life with all its beauty and grace.

I am weary, my soul seems lurid indeed, but I found peace in the prospect of what could be and the rest that I might have if I learn to love myself and my surroundings and perhaps beautify it in some small way as well.