Finding mid-week rest
Eight days into the new school year and fatigue is creeping in. I don't want to be dramatic.
No one is exhausted. No one is actually suffering, but dang any time the first number on the clock says "5," you're gonna feel a smidgen sorry for yourself.
Back-to-school season is like living with a mild case of jet lag; we're annoyed, but not debilitated.
When this happens and books are too much for my evening routine, I read poetry. (Don't knock it if you haven't tried it!) Just last night I rediscovered this classic poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and was reminded exactly why nothing beats a good poem.
I hope you'll enjoy it as well!
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.