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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 tonight 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.
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