The day is done, and the darkness <br />Falls from the wings of night <br />As a feather 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 the 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 the strains of martial music, <br />Their mighty throughts suggest <br />Life's endless toil and endeavor; <br />And tonight I long for rest. <br /> <br />Read from the 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 the treasured volume <br />The poem of my 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/the-day-is-done/
