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 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.
