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Mary Darby Robinson - London`s Summer Morning
Work rating: Medium

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.
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