The Day is Done

In my humble opinion, the following classic from Longfellow
is the best poem ever written. Many thousands will disagree
with me, and all with well-founded arguments. But this poem
speaks to me. It has for many years. It is the only poem I
have ever troubled myself to memorize. Perhaps the reason I
love it so is because Henry Wadsworth was actually writing
about me. I may be the "humbler poet" whom he referenced.
I am, at least, one of the many he had in mind.

I hope The Day is Done speaks to you as it does me.

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.

Beneath The Guns

Lion's roar and flame of hell,
Smoke from a dozen suns,
Volcanic tremors, belching death,
All meet beneath the guns.

Launching shells and trails of fire
Fill the summer sky.
Far downrange, embracing earth,
The sons of mothers die.

Cannon blast and hell on wheels
Export a murderous fate.
Lifting fields with demon breath,
Salvation comes too late.

A soldier, young and soon to die,
Forgets his mother's face.
Steel splinters, sharp and heated red,
Cover him as lace.

No man was born, or raised for this,
As fodder for the maw;
Gentle little baby boys,
Now bleeding meat, and raw.

O! My sweet Lord Jesus!
Is it possible to forgive the ones
Who brought us to this place,
'Neath the shadow of the guns?