Page:Emily Dickinson Poems - second series (1891).djvu/128

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HE 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.