Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 5
Chapter 67 of 146 · 1 min read
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.
VI.
THE ROBIN.
The robin is the one That interrupts the morn With hurried, few, express reports When March is scarcely on.
The robin is the one That overflows the noon With her cherubic quantity, An April but begun.
The robin is the one That speechless from her nest Submits that home and certainty And sanctity are best.
