V

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 orchards

His haughty, spangled hems,

Leaving a new necessity,—

The want of diadems!

The morning fluttered, staggered,

Felt feebly for her crown,—

Her unanointed forehead

Henceforth her only one.