Morning.

'Tis the hour when white-horsed Day     Chases Night her mares away;     When the Gates of Dawn (they say)      Phobus opes:     And I gather that the Queen     May be uniformly seen,     Should the weather be serene,      On the slopes.     When the ploughman, as he goes     Leathern-gaitered o'er the snows,     From his hat and from his nose      Knocks the ice;     And the panes are frosted o'er,     And the lawn is crisp and hoar,     As has been observed before      Once or twice.     When arrayed in breastplate red     Sings the robin, for his bread,     On the elmtree that hath shed      Every leaf;     While, within, the frost benumbs     The still sleepy schoolboy's thumbs,     And in consequence his sums      Come to grief.     But when breakfast-time hath come,     And he's crunching crust and crumb,     He'll no longer look a glum      Little dunce;     But be brisk as bees that settle     On a summer rose's petal:     Wherefore, Polly, put the kettle      On at once.