Morning Poems

 Morning at The Window - T S Eliot



THEY ARE RATTLING PLATES IN THE BASEMENT KITCHENS

And along the trampled edges of the street

I AM AWARE OF THE DAMP SOULS OF HOUSEMAIDS  
Sprouting despondently at area gates. 
 
The brown waves of fog toss up to me          
Twisted faces from the bottom of the street, 
And tear FROM A PASSER-BY WITH MUDDY SKIRTS
AN AIMLESS SMILE that hovers in the air 
And vanishes along the level of the roofs.

A Description of the Morning   - Jonathan Swift

Now hardly here and there a hackney-coach

Appearing, show'd the RUDDY MORN'S approach.

Now BETTY FROM HER MASTER'S BED HAD FLOWN,

AND SOFTLY STOLE TO DISCOMPOSE HER OWN.

The SLIP-SHOD 'prentice from his master's door

Had par'd the dirt, and SPRINKLED round the floor.

Now Moll had WHIRL'D HER MOP WITH DEX'TROUS AIRS,

PREPAR'D TO SCRUB THE ENTRY AND THE STAIRS.

The YOUTH with broomy stumps began to trace

The kennel-edge, where wheels had worn the place.

The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep;

Till drown'd IN SHRILLER NOTES OF "chimney-sweep."

Duns at his LORDSHIP'S gate began to meet;

And BRICKDUST MOLL had SCREAM'D THROUGH HALF A STREET

The turnkey now his flock returning sees,

Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees.

The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands;

And SCHOOLBOYS lag with satchels in their hands.

Morning Song - Sylvia Plath


LOVE SET you GOING LIKE A FAT GOLD WATCH

The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry   

Took its place among the elements
Our VOICES echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.

In a drafty museum, your nakedness

Shadows our safety. We  STAND ROUND BLANKLY AS WALLS.

 I’m no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind’s hand

ALL NIGHT YOUR moth-BREATH

Flickers among the flat PINK ROSES. I wake to listen:

A far sea MOVES IN MY EAR.

One cry, and I STUMBLES FROM BED, COW-HEAVY AND FLORAL

IN MY VICTORIAN NIGHTGOWN.

Your MOUTH OPENS clean as a cat’s. The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try

Your handful of notes;

THE CLEAR VOWELS RISE LIKE BALLOONS.

Morning by Billy Collins


WHY DO WE BOTHER with the rest of the day,

the swale of the afternoon,

the sudden dip into evening,

then night with his NOTORIOUS perfumes,

his many-pointed stars?

THIS IS THE BEST—

THROWING OFF THE LIGHT COVERS,

FEET ON THE COLD FLOOR,

and buzzing around the house on espresso—

maybe A SPLASH OF WATER ON THE FACE,

a palmful of vitamins—

but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,

dictionary and atlas open on the rug,

the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,

a cello on the radio,

 and, if necessary, the windows—

trees fifty, a hundred years old

OUT THERE,

heavy clouds on the way

and the lawn steaming like a horse

IN THE EARLY MORNING.