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.