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.
Two Longfellow Songs , opus 149
by Mario Castelnuovo-Tedesco (1895 - 1968)
?. The day is done  [sung text not yet checked]
Language: English
Authorship:
- by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 - 1882), "The day is done", appears in The Belfry of Bruges and Other Poems, first published 1845
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Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- GER German (Deutsch) (Ernst Eckstein) , "Am Abend", subtitle: "(Nach dem Englischen von H.W. Longfellow.)", appears in In Moll und Dur, in 3. Dritte Abtheilung
?. Nature  [sung text not yet checked]
Language: English
As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor, Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of others in their stead, Which, though more splendid, may not please him more; So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.
Authorship:
- by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 - 1882), "Nature", appears in Masque of Pandora and Other Poems, first published 1875
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]