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!
Email sent, Danger.
ReplyDeleteYou rock Hoover!
ReplyDelete