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...POETS ARE BORN NOT MADE by ROBERT FROST HATRED by GWENDOLYN B. BENNETT LEISURE by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES IDLENESS by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL ANYWHERE OUT OF THE WORLD by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE MATRIMONIAL MELODIES: 1. ASHES TO ASHES by BERTON BRALEY THE WANDERER: 1. IN ITALY: MORNING AND MEETING by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |