Breakfast

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 refreshed 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 finished, 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 pilëd high, Clambering o'er the lumps so white, Rocky cliffs of sweet delight.