|The Day is Done
|THE DAY is done, and the darkness
|Falls from the wings of Night,
|As a feather is wafted downward
|From an eagle in his flight.
|I see the lights of the village
|Gleam through the rain and the mist,
|And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
|That my soul cannot resist:
|A feeling of sadness and longing,
|That is not akin to pain,
|And resembles sorrow only
|As the mist resembles the rain.
|Come, read to me some poem,
|Some simple and heartfelt lay,
|That shall soothe this restless feeling,
|And banish the thoughts of day.
|Not from the grand old masters,
|Not from the bards sublime,
|Whose distant footsteps echo
|Through the corridors of Time.
|For, like strains of martial music,
|Their mighty thoughts suggest
|Life's endless toil and endeavor;
|And to-night I long for rest.
|Read from some humbler poet,
|Whose songs gushed from his heart,
|As showers from the clouds of summer,
|Or tears from the eyelids start;
|Who, through long days of labor,
|And nights devoid of ease,
|Still heard in his soul the music
|Of wonderful melodies.
|Such songs have power to quiet
|The restless pulse of care,
|And come like the benediction
|That follows after prayer.
|Then read from the treasured volume
|The poem of thy choice,
|And lend to the rhyme of the poet
|The beauty of thy voice.
|And the night shall be filled with music,
|And the cares, that infest the day,
|Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
|And as silently steal away.
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow