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.