London's Summer Morning

Who has not waked to list the busy sounds

Of summer's morning, in the sultry smoke

Of noisy London? On the pavement hot

The sooty chimney-boy, with dingy face

And tatter'd covering, shrilly bawls his trade,

Rousing the sleepy housemaid. At the door

The milk-pail rattles, and the tinkling bell

Proclaims the dustman's office; while the street

Is lost in clouds impervious. Now begins

The din of hackney-coaches, waggons, carts;

While tinmen's shops, and noisy trunk-makers,

Knife-grinders, coopers, squeaking cork-cutters,

Fruit barrows, and the hunger-giving cries

Of vegetable venders, fill the air.

Now every shop displays its varied trade,

And the fresh-sprinkled pavement cools the feet

Of early walkers. At the private door

The ruddy housemaid twirls the busy mop,

Annoying the smart 'prentice, or neat girl,

Tripping with band-box lightly. Now the sun

Darts burning splendour on the glittering pane,

Save where the canvas awning throws a shade

On the day merchandize. Now, spruce and trim,

In shops (where beauty smiles with industry),

Sits the smart damsel; while the passenger

Peeps through the window, watching every charm.

Now pastry dainties catch the eye minute

Of humming insects, while the limy snare

Waits to enthral them. Now the lamp-lighter

Mounts the tall ladder, nimbly venturous,

To trim the half-fill'd lamp; while at his feet

The pot-boy yells discordant! All along

The sultry pavement, the old-clothes man cries

In tone monotonous, the side-long views

The area for his traffic: now the bag

Is slily open'd, and the half-worn suit

(Sometimes the pilfer'd treasure of the base

Domestic spoiler), for one half its worth,

Sinks in the green abyss. The porter now

Bears his huge load along the burning way;

And the poor poet wakes from busy dreams,

To paint the summer morning.