I am not particularly fond of reading poems, as it had always reminded me about the old yellowed school days, where I was very often asked to write detailed explanation about some inexplicable poems by some fabled poets from past.Which, by the way, meant absolutely nothing to me, and I always got a Big Zero flanked by a Red cross.
Though my poetic sense of humor has very takers, but still I would dearly like to share this poem with you, I hope when you read this you would have a smile on your face, twinkle in your eyes and a lost thought in your mind.
What I like about this poem, is its simple narrative that transforms from a per
sonal journey by the author to a much bigger walk of life that we take each day.I feel that this poem talks about my feelings, my hopes and despair in this troubled times. I do believe that you might also find your inner voice in this. In true sense it’s simply ‘Poetic’.
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.
