V
The Sun’s Wooing
The sun just touched the morning;The morning, happy thing,Supposed that he had come to dwell,And life would be all spring.
She felt herself supremer,—A raised, ethereal thing;Henceforth for her what holiday!Meanwhile, her wheeling king
Trailed slow along the orchardsHis haughty, spangled hems,Leaving a new necessity,—The want of diadems!
The morning fluttered, staggered,Felt feebly for her crown,—Her unanointed foreheadHenceforth her only one.