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 reain and the mist:
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
Tha 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 distance 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 hubler poet,
Whose songs gush'd from his heart,
As showersf rom the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, thorough 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 restelss 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 th night shall be fill'd with music,
And the cares that infect the day
Shall fold their tents like nomads*
And as silently steal away.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
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