Morning at the Window
T. S. Eliot
1888 to 1965
Track 1
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They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
And the trampled edges of the street
I am aware the damp souls of housemaids
Sprouting despondently at area gates.
The brown waves of fog toss up to me
faces from the bottom of the street,
And tear a passer-by with muddy skirts
An aimless smile that in the air
And vanishes along the level of roofs.