ALL the morning I have lain perversely in bed; Now at dusk I rise with many yawns. My warm stove is quick to get ablaze; At the cold mirror I am slow in doing my hair. With melted snow I boil fragrant tea; Seasoned with curds I cook a milk-pudding. At my sloth and greed there is no one but me to laugh; My cheerful vigour none but myself knows. The taste of my wine is mild and works no poison; The notes of my harp are soft and bring no sadness. To the Three Joys in the book of Mencius I have added the fourth of playing with my baby-boy. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CHANSON D'AUTOMNE by PAUL VERLAINE THE ANGLER'S SONG by WILLIAM BASSE THE BLACK FINGER by ANGELINA WELD GRIMKE SONNET ON SITTING DOWN TO READ KING LEAR ONCE AGAIN by JOHN KEATS WIDOW MALONE by CHARLES JAMES LEVER THE GREAT BLACK CROW by PHILIP JAMES BAILEY DEEP SUMMER by HARRIET GRAY BLACKWELL A SONG OF SALVATION by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE THE WANDERER: 4. IN SWITZERLAND: A QUIET MOMEMENT by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |