The day is done, and darkness <br />From the wing of night is loosed, <br />As a feather is wafted downward, <br />From a chicken going to roost. <br /> <br />I see the lights of the baker, <br />Gleam through the rain and mist, <br />And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, <br />That I cannot resist. <br /> <br />A feeling of sadness and longing <br />That is not like being sick, <br />And resembles sorrow only <br />As a brickbat resembles a brick. <br /> <br />Come, get for me some supper,-- <br />A good and regular meal-- <br />That shall soothe this restless feeling, <br />And banish the pain I feel. <br /> <br />Not from the pastry bakers, <br />Not from the shops for cake; <br />I wouldn't give a farthing <br />For all that they can make. <br /> <br />For, like the soup at dinner, <br />Such things would but suggest <br />Some dishes more substantial, <br />And tonight I want the best. <br /> <br />Go to some honest butcher, <br />Whose beef is fresh and nice, <br />As any they have in the city <br />And get a liberal slice. <br /> <br />Such things through days of labor, <br />And nights devoid of ease, <br />For sad and desperate feelings, <br />Are wonderful remedies. <br /> <br />They have an astonishing power <br />To aid and reinforce, <br />And come like the 'finally, brethren,' <br />That follows a long discourse. <br /> <br />Then get me a tender sirloin <br />From off the bench or hook. <br />And lend to its sterling goodness <br />The science of the cook. <br /> <br />And the night shall be filled with comfort, <br />And the cares with which it begun <br />Shall fold up their blankets like Indians, <br />And silently cut and run.<br /><br />Phoebe Cary<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-day-is-done-parody-of-h-w-longfellow/
