Thomas R. Lounsbury, ed. (1838–1915). Yale Book of American Verse. 1912.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 18071882
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow65 The Day is Done
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.