The Long Day Closes

by Henry F. Chorley (librettist) and Arthur Sullivan (composer)

No star is o'er the lake,

Its pale watch keeping,

The moon is half awake,

Through gray mists creeping,

The last red leaves fall round

The porch of roses,

The clock hath ceased to sound,

The long day closes.

Sit by the silent hearth

In calm endeavour,

To count the sounds of mirth,

Now dumb for ever.

Heed not how hope believes

And fate disposes:

Shadow is round the eaves,

The long day closes.

The lighted windows dim

Are fading slowly.

The fire that was so trim

Now quivers lowly.

Go to the dreamless bed

Where grief reposes;

Thy book of toil is read,

The long day closes.