The Sun’s Wooing. By Emily Dickinson

    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.