Day 1001: The Day is Done

 

'Come, read to me some poem,

      Some simple and heartfelt lay...'

Well, I have reached my final destination here on this blog. One thousand poems and just one more for the road. It has been a delightful journey thus far. But from here on in, there will no longer be a daily poem posted here, I am sad to say. 

It is going to take a lot of getting used to! I have been posting daily poems here for almost 3 years! It has been grueling at times, but mostly, it has been a gift, a golden glow of purpose. 

Thank you all so much for reading and tuning in. It is not an end per se, but an end to the daily ventures. I will keep posting some more poems here on a weekly basis or thereabouts, but for now, I want to turn my attention to other things. I also want to spend some time categorising the poems here so they can be accessed more easily and read back over for enjoyment. 

For now though, I say goodbye, with the help of Longfellow. This day is done, but I hope it has filled your nights with music, as it has done mine. 

~ Siobhán

The Day is Done - 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.