C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
The Day is Done
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882)
T
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me
That my soul cannot resist;
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.