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TERESA MILANOLLO.

POEM.

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POEM. 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 raisiT, 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 lav, That shall soothe this restiess 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 toils and endeavour, And to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet. Whose songs gushed from his lxeatc-, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who through long days of labour, 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 poetn 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. —THE WAIT.

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