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 tonight
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 W. Longfellow.
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