Her Unanointed Forehead

Piece Of Eden

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,--
A want of diadems!


The morning fluttered, staggered,
Felt feebly for her crown,--
Her unanointed forehead
Henceforth her only one.

--Emily Dickinson


Have a lovely Sunday!



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