The day is done

The day is done, and the darkness  

  Falls from the wings of Night,  

As a feather is 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 day.  

 

Not from the grand old masters,  

  Not from the bards sublime,  

Whose distant footsteps echo  

  Through the corridors of Time.

 

For, like strains of martial music,  

  Their mighty thoughts suggest  

Life'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 labour,  

  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 from the treasured volume  

  The poem of thy 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.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow