The Day Is Done

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 endeavour;   
  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 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 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.  
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
The Day Thou Gavest Lord Is Ended 


The day Thou gavest, Lord, is ended, 
The darkness falls at Thy behest; 
To Thee our morning hymns ascended, 
Thy praise shall sanctify our rest.

 We thank Thee that Thy church, unsleeping, 
While earth rolls onward into light,
 Through all the world her watch is keeping, 
And rests not now by day or night. 

As o’er each continent and island 
The dawn leads on another day, 
The voice of prayer is never silent,
 Nor dies the strain of praise away. 

The sun that bids us rest is waking
 Our brethren ’neath the western sky, 
And hour by hour fresh lips are making 
Thy wondrous doings heard on high.

 So be it, Lord; Thy throne shall never,
 Like earth’s proud empires, pass away: 
Thy kingdom stands, and grows forever, 
Till all Thy creatures own Thy sway. 

I wish all of you peace and blessings as we prepare to embark on a unique Lenten Journey this year.

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