Home Links Nature, the gentlest mother Will there really be a morning? At half-past three a single bird The day came slow, till five o’clock The sun just touched the morning The robin is the one From cocoon forth a butterfly Before you thought of spring Whose are the little beds, I asked Pigmy seraphs gone astray To hear an oriole sing One of the ones that Midas touched

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.