Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

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.

1. Childish Griefs
2. What Soft, Cherubic Creatures
3. Desire
4. Power
5. Is Bliss, Then, Such Abyss

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