THE SUN'S WOOING - The sun just touched the morning
The sun just touched the morning; / The morning, happy thing,
I had been hungry all the years;
My noon had come, to dine;
I, trembling, drew the table near,
And touched the curious wine.
'T was this on tables I had seen,
When turning, hungry, lone,
I looked in windows, for the wealth
I could not hope to own.
I did not know the ample bread,
'T was so unlike the crumb
The birds and I had often shared
In Nature's dining-room.
The plenty hurt me, 't was so new, --
Myself felt ill and odd,
As berry of a mountain bush
Transplanted to the road.
Nor was I hungry; so I found
That hunger was a way
Of persons outside windows,
The entering takes away.
The sun just touched the morning; / The morning, happy thing,
OF Death the sharpest function, / That, just as we discern,
Who never wanted, -- maddest joy / Remains to him unknown:
The moon is distant from the sea, / And yet with amber hands