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 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.