The day is done 1857
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 mist,
and a feeling 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 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 endeavour and tonight I long to rest
Read from some humbler poet, whose songs gushed from his heart,
as showers from clouds of summer or tears from eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labour, 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 comes like the benediction that follows after prayer.
Then read from treasured volume, the poem and 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 Arabs and as silently steal away.
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