The sun just touched the morning;
The morning, happy thing,
Supposed that he would leave soon
And this was just a fling.
She felt herself supremer,—
A raised, ethereal thing;
Henceforth she would ignore him
Like a haughty queen.
Meanwhile, the sun got dressed
And offered to cook some eggs,
But she spoke not a word to him
And covered up her legs.
Once he left, the morning staggered,
Felt feebly for her crown,—
Her absolutely pounding forehead
Henceforth her only one.