| 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 the mist |
|
And a feeling of sadness 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 rain
|
|
| Come,
read to me some poem |
|
Some simple and heart felt lay |
|
That will soothe this restless feeling |
And banish the thoughts of the day
|
|
| Not
from the Grand Old Masters |
|
Not from the Bards sublime |
|
whose distant footsteps echo |
Through the corridors of time
|
|
| For
like the strains of martial music |
|
Their mighty thoughts suggest |
|
Life's endless toil and endeavor |
And to-night I long for rest
|
|
| Read
from some humbler poet |
|
Whose songs gush from his heart |
|
As showers from clouds in summer |
Or tears from the 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 benediction |
Which follows after prayer
|
|
| Then
read from the treasured volume |
|
A poem of 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 |
|
Will pack their tents like the Arabs |
And as silently steal away
|