They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens, <br />And along the trampled edges of the street <br />I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids <br />Sprouting despondently at area gates. <br />The brown waves of fog toss up to me <br />Twisted faces from the bottom of the street, <br />And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts <br />An aimless smile that hovers in the air <br />And vanishes along the level of the roofs.<br /><br />Thomas Stearns Eliot<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/morning-at-the-window/
