Morning at the Window


     They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
     And along the trampled edges of the street
     I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
     Sprouting despondently at area gates.
     The brown waves of fog toss up to me
     Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,
     And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts
     An aimless smile that hovers in the air
     And vanishes along the level of the roofs.


facebook share button twitter share button google plus share button tumblr share button reddit share button email share button share on pinterest pinterest

Create a library and add your favorite stories. Get started by clicking the "Add" button.
Add Morning at the Window to your own personal library.

Return to the T.S. Eliot Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; Mr. Apollinax

It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so.