Learning To Love Longfellow

A few months ago, my suitemates and I had an impromptu poetry-reading session rather late at night in their room. We were tired after a long day of homework and classes, and found just the refreshment we needed in the form of large cups of tea and our favorite poems. One of the poems that they shared with me was Longellow's Day is Done. I regret to say that I have not read many of Longfellow's poems, but after hearing this one, a new found love for his words awoke inside of me. 

Like I have found with most poetry, this poem is best read aloud.

The Day is Done

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

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 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.

Not from the grand old masters,

      Not from the bards sublime,

Whose distant footsteps echo

      Through the corridors of Time.

For, like 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 gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer,

      Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,

      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 come like the benediction

      That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

      The 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,

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

      And as silently steal away.