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