day is done.
the night has come -
to swallow the heart of a dying sun.
lights are out,
the reveries are about
to take the shape of a loaded gun.
it takes a while -
for a thing so vile -
to lock its aim on a mind on the run.
but it finds a way,
to fire away -
right before it works out 1 + 1.
the birds at the window,
come and bestow
the occasional voice of reason;
for they know too well -
than to let the mind dwell
in the haunting silence of the season.
at the end of the day,
the mind obeys -
an imposter it deems ‘the chosen one’.
day is done.
the night has come -
to swallow the heart of a dying sun.
Nov 25, 2024
Nov 25, 2024 at 9:48 AM UTC
day is done.
the night has come -
to swallow the heart of a dying sun.
lights are out,
the reveries are about
to take the shape of a loaded gun.
it takes a while -
for a thing so vile -
to lock its aim on a mind on the run.
but it finds a way,
to fire away -
right before it works out 1 + 1.
the birds at the window,
come and bestow
the occasional voice of reason;
for they know too well -
than to let the mind dwell
in the haunting silence of the season.
at the end of the day,
the mind obeys -
an imposter it deems ‘the chosen one’.
day is done.
the night has come -
to swallow the heart of a dying sun.
The Day is Done
By H.W. 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.
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