Written from memory
Day is Done
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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 come 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 rain.
Come read to me some poem, some simple, heartfelt lay,
That will 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 tonight I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet, whose songs gushed from his heart,
Like showers from the clouds of summer, or tears from the eyelids start.
Such songs have the 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 nights shall be filled with music, and the cares that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents like Arabs, and silently steal away.
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