The Day Is Done
by Phoebe Cary (1824-1871)

The day is done, and darkness
      From the wing of night is loosed,
As a feather is wafted downward
      From a chicken going to roost.

I see the lights of the baker
      Gleam through the rain and mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me
      That I cannot well resist.

A feeling of sadness and longing,
      That is not like being sick,
And resembles sorrow only
      As a brickbat resembles a brick.

Come, get for me some supper,—
      A good and regular meal,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
      And banish the pain I feel.

Not from the pastry baker’s,
      Not from the shops for cake,
I wouldn’t give a farthing
      For all that they can make.

For, like the soup at dinner,
      Such things would but suggest
Some dishes more substantial,
      And to-night I want the best.

Go to some honest butcher,
      Whose beef is fresh and nice
As any they have in the city,
      And get a liberal slice.

Such things through days of labour,
      And nights devoid of ease,
For sad and desperate feelings
      Are wonderful remedies.

They have an astonishing power
      To aid and reinforce,
And come like the ‘Finally, brethren,’
      That follows a long discourse.

Then get me a tender sirloin
      From off the bench or hook,
And lend to its sterling goodness
      The science of the cook.

And the night shall be filled with comfort,
      And the cares with which it begun
Shall fold up their blankets like Indians,
      And silently cut and run.

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