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