Morning at the Window by T.S. Eliot — Read

Tuey 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.