One well-nigh explodes; but I say there are seasons for laughter,
And, like other great men, I am not at my best in the morning
When just out of bed.
So it was that last week, when the pitiless glare of Apollo
Was toasting the lawn till it looked like a segment of mat,
When I came to my breakfast at length from a lingering wallow
In a bath that professed to be cold—as I moodily sat
And observed how the heat on the pavements was momently doubling,
And hated the coffee for looking so brown and so bubbling,
And hated my paper, which seemed to expect me to follow