Morning

The Muses' friend (grey-eyed Aurora) yet     Held all the meadows in a cooling sweat,     The milk-white gossamers not upwards snow'd,     Nor was the sharp and useful-steering goad     Laid on the strong-neck'd ox; no gentle bud     The sun had dried; the cattle chew'd the cud     Low levell'd on the grass; no fly's quick sting     Enforc'd the stonehorse in a furious ring     To tear the passive earth, nor lash his tail     About his buttocks broad; the slimy snail     Might on the wainscot, by his many mazes,     Winding meanders and self-knitting traces,     Be follow'd where he stuck, his glittering slime     Not yet wip'd off. It was so early time,     The careful smith had in his sooty forge     Kindled no coal; nor did his hammers urge     His neighbours' patience: owls abroad did fly,     And day as then might plead his in fancy.     From Britannia's Pastorals.