Льюис Моррис (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! 

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