T

HE longest night—so people say—
Follows the short December day;
And if by hours you count the night,
Then surely what they say is right.
But years, and years, and years ago,
When I was very young, you know,
The longest night, I'm bound to say,
Followed the shortest month's last day.
That night I always lay awake,
And longed to see the morning break,
And sunshine through the window burst,
For I was born on March the First.
I heard the big clock—stiff and stark—
Sedately ticking in the dark,
And when I murmured: 'Hurry, do!'
It made reply by chiming 'Two.'
And on from hour to hour it seemed
I dozed, I waked, I thought and dreamed
Of pleasures mine—an endless sum—
If March the First would ever come.
And yet the morning's earliest peep
Would always find me fast asleep:
So fast asleep that at my door
They called and called me o'er and o'er.
So, since that time I've learned, my dear,
The longest night in all the year
Is that on which we lie awake,
Impatient for the dawn to break.