When my son was young, he had several excellent books of poetry — not the Mother Goose kind, but real poetry. Some of it was very funny and silly, and some was quite beautiful. But now, with the longer days as Summer approaches, and me still having to go to bed early (because I have to get up early), I find myself thinking of the last line of one of my favorites:
And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?
By Robert Lewis Stevenson, “Bed in Summer,” from his Child’s Garden of Versus.