Poems (Dorr)/Day and Night
For works with similar titles, see Day and Night.
DAY AND NIGHT
I.
When I awake at morn, refreshed, renewed,
Glad with the gladness of the jocund day
And jubilant with all the birds of May,
My spirit shrinks from Night's dull quietude.
With it and Sleep I have a deadly feud.
I hear the young winds in the maples play,
The river singing on its happy way,
The swallows twittering to their callow brood.
The fresh, fair earth is full of joyous life;
The tree-tops toss in billowy unrest;
The very mountain shadows are astir!
With eager heart I thrill to join the strife;
Doing, not dreaming, to my soul seems best,
And I am lordly Day's true worshipper!
Glad with the gladness of the jocund day
And jubilant with all the birds of May,
My spirit shrinks from Night's dull quietude.
With it and Sleep I have a deadly feud.
I hear the young winds in the maples play,
The river singing on its happy way,
The swallows twittering to their callow brood.
The fresh, fair earth is full of joyous life;
The tree-tops toss in billowy unrest;
The very mountain shadows are astir!
With eager heart I thrill to join the strife;
Doing, not dreaming, to my soul seems best,
And I am lordly Day's true worshipper!
II.
But when with Day's long weariness oppressed,
With folded hands I watch the sun go down,
Lighting far torches in the steepled town,
And kindling all the glowing, reddening west;
When every sleepy bird has sought its nest;
When the long shadows from the hills are thrown,
And Night's soft airs about the world arc blown,
Thou heart of mine, how sweet it is to rest!
O, Israfil! Thou of the tuneful voice!
It will be nightfall when thy voice I hear,
Summoning me to slumber soft and low!
Day will be done. Then will I not rejoice
That all my tasks are o'er and rest is near,
And, like a tired child, be glad to go?
With folded hands I watch the sun go down,
Lighting far torches in the steepled town,
And kindling all the glowing, reddening west;
When every sleepy bird has sought its nest;
When the long shadows from the hills are thrown,
And Night's soft airs about the world arc blown,
Thou heart of mine, how sweet it is to rest!
O, Israfil! Thou of the tuneful voice!
It will be nightfall when thy voice I hear,
Summoning me to slumber soft and low!
Day will be done. Then will I not rejoice
That all my tasks are o'er and rest is near,
And, like a tired child, be glad to go?