Breakfast
Mary Lamb
1764 to 1847
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A dinner party, coffee, tea,
Sandwich, or supper, all be
In their way pleasant. But to me
Not of these deserves the praise
That welcomer of new-born days,
A breakfast, merits; ever giving
Cheerful notice we are
Another day refreshed by sleep,
When its festival we keep.
Now although I would not slight
Those kindly words use ‘Good night’,
Yet parting words are words of sorrow,
And may not vie with sweet ‘Good Morrow’,
With again our friends we greet,
When in the breakfast-room meet,
At the social table round,
Listening to the sound
Of those notes which never tire,
Of urn, kettle on the fire.
Sleepy Robert never hears
Or urn, or kettle; he appears
When all have finished, one one
Dropping off, and breakfast done.
Yet has he his own pleasure,
His breakfast hour’s his hour of leisure;
And, left alone, he reads or muses,
Or else idle mood he uses
To sit and watch the fly,
Where the sugar’s piled high,
Clambering o’er the so white,
Rocky cliffs of sweet delight.