THE DAY IS DONEBy Henry Wadsworth LongfellowTHE DAY is done, and the darknessFalls from the wings of Night,As a feather is wafted downwardFrom an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the villageGleam through the rain and the mist,And a feeling of sadness comes o’er meThat my soul cannot resist:A feeling of sadness and longing,That is not akin to pain,And resembles sorrow onlyAs 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 echoThrough the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,Their mighty thoughts suggestLife’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 musicOf wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quietThe restless pulse of care,And come like the benedictionThat follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volumeThe poem of thy choice,And lend to the rhyme of the poetThe 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.

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