I see the lights of the village
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
As a feather is wafted downward
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me
That my soul cannot resist:
From an eagle in his flight.
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.
——
Created for Lit2Go on the web at fcit.usf.edu
The Day is Done
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Not from the grand old masters,
Such songs have power to quiet
Not from the bards sublime,
The restless pulse of care,
Whose distant footsteps echo
And come like the benediction
Through the corridors of Time.
That follows after prayer.
For, like strains of martial music,
Then read from the treasured volume
Their mighty thoughts suggest
The poem of thy choice,
Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
And tonight I long for rest.
The beauty of thy voice.
Read from some humbler poet,
And the night shall be filled with music
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
And the cares, that infest the day,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
And as silently steal away.
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
——
Created for Lit2Go on the web at fcit.usf.edu