Morning Hour

With the morning there flew to my bed
two little ones — in the age of roses...
They burrowed under my quilt and sprang upon me:
with two faces tinted rosy in color,
and eyes that outshine the sun in radiance,
and the stars in brimming and in dance...
They crowded upon my arms and my neck, tickling and nuzzling,
and snatched my kisses from each other, a storm of uproar and protest...
So sweet in my mouth grew the sips of coffee
that comes to me, by custom, in bed
on a tray of brass,
as though it were gold!

•

Suddenly a worry seized me...
I feared a reckless wing might rise
and fling my coffee over the pillows and sheets!
And I set about warning the two little ones,
feigning frowns and gravity!
And they met me with loud clowning —

nay, with an unknowing drunkenness —
...two runaway horses!!

•

The matter slipped away from me.
From my hand the halter broke loose,
so I took up a posture of defense
and entrenched myself at the edge of the bed,
guarding the cup with both my hands,
my eyes darting, fluttering and fearful,
from one little one to the other —
in a hysteria of laughter
without beginning and without end...

•

And like an arrow there pierced my head
a scene out of my own past, with my mother and my brothers —
and I gave in, cup and all,
sipping the last of its coffee —
and turned back to the two excited little ones,
drowning with them... in peals of laughter