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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - The Day Is Done
Work rating: Medium

The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of night 
As a feather 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 the day. 

Not from the grand old masters, 
Not from the bards sublime, 
Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of time. 

For, like the strains of martial music, 
Their mighty throughts suggest 
Life`s endless toil and endeavor; 
And tonight I long for rest. 

Read from the 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 the treasured volume 
The poem of my 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.
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