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Poem by Lewis Morris
Dear Little Hand
DEAR little hand that clasps my own, Embrowned with toil and seamed with strife ; Pink little fingers not yet grown To the poor strength of after-life,— Dear little hand! Dear little eyes which smile on mine With the first peep of morning light ; Now April-wet with tears, or fine With dews of pity, or laughing bright. Dear little eyes! Dear little voice, whose broken speech All eloquent utterance can transcend ; Sweet childish wisdom strong to reach A holier deep than love or friend : Dear little voice! Dear little life I my care to keep From every spot and stain of sin ; Sweet soul foredoomed, for joy or pain. To struggle—and which? to fail or win? Dread mystical life!
Lewis Morris's other poems:
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