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.[1]
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.
[1]
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.