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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