XXVII
Aurora
Of bronze and blazeThe north, to-night!So adequate its forms,So preconcerted with itself,So distant to alarms,—An unconcern so sovereignTo universe, or me,It paints my simple spiritWith tints of majesty,Till I take vaster attitudes,And strut upon my stem,Disdaining men and oxygen,For arrogance of them.
My splendors are menagerie;But their competeless showWill entertain the centuriesWhen I am, long ago,An island in dishonored grass,Whom none but daisies know.