Night And Day

Before Time started on his way There was no changing night and day; The sun stood still above Bombay.

And Bombay people had to hear The constant clanging far and near Of bells that called to noonday cheer.

They ate continuously, for when They finished their dessert, why then They started off with soup again.

One eats with pleasure and a jest With time between meals to digest; But constant eating spoils the zest.

* * * * *

About three thousand miles away In all directions from Bombay It was forever early day;

And people worked with might and main Hoping for dinner time and fain For night and rest, but all in vain.

A sandwich snatched, a wedge of pie, A cat-nap stolen on the sly, These were the only reasons why,

Since they could neither rest or play, They didn’t stop in sheer dismay And starve, dry up and blow away.

* * * * *

And further on for many a mile The dawn held sway with rosy smile, And yawning folks dressed all the while.

* * * * *

The rest of earth was brooded o’er By endless night, and one grand snore Swelled loud and long from shore to shore.

And folks would wake with start and sigh And rub their eyes and wonder why Dawn never tinged the eastern sky.

The moon and stars were wan and pale From overwork, the nightingale Could only croak and hoarsely wail.

But ghosts might range abroad at will Fearless of dawn and cock-crow shrill, And waken folks with awful thrill.

* * * * *

Now Phoebus driving in his car With winged steeds from star to star, Passed by the earth and from afar

Beheld the weary human race; He checked his horses for a space And pondered with a serious face;

Then put his horses to the run And when a long swift course was done He hitched his wagon to the sun.

Since then the dusky night alway Around the world has chased the day; And we can work and rest and play.

Some critic now will surely say:-- “How could they think of dawn when they Had never been where it was day?”

Their shiftless forbears may have pined In dawn-land, and with debts behind Have gone where they were hard to find.

So, gentle critic, be content. This hope of dawn was surely sent By atavistic accident.