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by
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1844
THE DAY IS DONE
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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 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 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. - -
THE END