“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.