A dinner party, coffee, tea, <br />Sandwich, or supper, all may be <br />In their way pleasant. But to me <br />Not one of these deserves the praise <br />That welcomer of new-born days, <br />A breakfast, merits; ever giving <br />Cheerful notice we are living <br />Another day refreshed by sleep, <br />When its festival we keep. <br />Now although I would not slight <br />Those kindly words we use, 'Good night,' <br />Yet parting words are words of sorrow, <br />And may not vie with sweet 'Good morrow,' <br />With which again our friends we greet, <br />When in the breakfast-room we meet, <br />At the social table round, <br />Listening to the lively sound <br />Of those notes which never tire, <br />Of urn, or kettle on the fire. <br />Sleepy Robert never hears <br />Or urn or kettle; he appears <br />When all have finished, one by one <br />Dropping off, and breakfast done. <br />Yet has he too his own pleasure, <br />His breakfast hour's his hour of leisure; <br />And, left alone, he reads or muses, <br />Or else in idle mood he uses <br />To sit and watch the venturous fly, <br />Where the sugar's pilëd high, <br />Clambering o'er the lumps so white, <br />Rocky cliffs of sweet delight.<br /><br />Charles Lamb<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/breakfast-25/
