Breakfast
Mary Lamb
1764 to 1847
Track 1
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His breakfast hour's his hour of leisure;
Where the sugar's piled high,
Another day refreshed by sleep,
Rocky cliffs of sweet delight.
That welcomer of new-born days,
Those kindly words we use 'Good night',
And, left alone, he reads or muses,
Yet parting words are words of sorrow,
With which again our friends we greet,
Sandwich, or supper, all may be
Yet has he too his own pleasure,
When its festival we keep.
Not one of these deserves the praise
Listening to the lively sound
Cheerful notice we are living
In their way pleasant. But to me
Dropping off, and breakfast done.
At the social table round,
Sleepy Robert never hears
Or else in idle mood he uses
A dinner party, coffee, tea,
When in the breakfast-room we meet,
Or urn, or kettle; he appears
To sit and watch the venturous fly,
Clambering o'er the lumps so white,
When all have finished, one by one
And may not vie with sweet 'Good Morrow',
A breakfast, merits; ever giving
Of urn, or kettle on the fire.
Of those notes which never tire,
Now although I would not slight