| THE DAY is done, and the darkness |
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| Falls from the wings of Night, |
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| As a feather is wafted downward |
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| From an eagle in his flight. |
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| I see the lights of the village |
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| Gleam through the rain and the mist, |
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| And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me |
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| That my soul cannot resist: |
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| A feeling of sadness and longing, |
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| That is not akin to pain, |
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| And resembles sorrow only |
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| As the mist resembles the rain. |
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| Come, read to me some poem, |
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| Some simple and heartfelt lay, |
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| That shall soothe this restless feeling, |
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| And banish the thoughts of day. |
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| Not from the grand old masters, |
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| Not from the bards sublime, |
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| Whose distant footsteps echo |
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| Through the corridors of Time. |
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| For, like strains of martial music, |
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| Their mighty thoughts suggest |
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| Life's endless toil and endeavor; |
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| And to-night I long for rest. |
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| Read from some humbler poet, |
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| Whose songs gushed from his heart, |
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| As showers from the clouds of summer, |
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| Or tears from the eyelids start; |
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| Who, through long days of labor, |
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| And nights devoid of ease, |
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| Still heard in his soul the music |
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| Of wonderful melodies. |
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| Such songs have power to quiet |
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| The restless pulse of care, |
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| And come like the benediction |
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| That follows after prayer. |
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| Then read from the treasured volume |
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| The poem of thy choice, |
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| And lend to the rhyme of the poet |
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| The beauty of thy voice. |
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| And the night shall be filled with music, |
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| And the cares, that infest the day, |
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| Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, |
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| And as silently steal away. |
