The Day is Done

 I've mentioned before that my grandparents loved poetry.

Tonight this poem came to mind, and I remembered my grandpa.


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 endeavor;
 And tonight 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 a power to quiet
 The restless pulse of care,
 And comes 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--     

Junk or Treasure?

A couple posts ago I was talking about STUFF.
If you read THIS post, then you will remember what Raimie mentioned about our early family Thanksgiving tradition of reciting/(reading) poetry.
Over the years we've had favorites, some memorized, some read, some that were wrote by the reader, many that were quickly found at the last minute (ahem...NOT yours truly of course....*I* wouldn't be guilty of that!)

This year the one our friend Gertrud read I thought was just really  perfect for my personal situation of STUFF, so I asked her for a copy.

( personally I would prefer not to  be considered "a ripe old age" But whatever---in all actuality my problem with STUFF started when I was quite young.  *sigh*)

Hope you enjoy it as much as I did!

Housecleaning

I find that I have reached the stage

That is commonly known as "ripe old age,"

And I'm called each day to decide the fate

Of things I've allowed to accumulate.

The things I don't need I can always find,

From two to a dozen of every kind;

But what I do need escapes the eye

Until I return from the store with another buy.

And what is left over, being sly as a fox,

I know I may need, so it goes in a box.

That is surely the reason I've run out of space

With bundles and boxes all over the place.

From morning till evening I spend every day

Just trying to find something I've laid away.

Some comfort I find; it isn't all bad,

For I find many things I didn't know I had.

So day after day I go round and round,

Continually losting more than I've found.

I must change my program before I am sunk

Or just disappear, submerged in my junk.

-Author unknown