XXVII. AURORA. Of bronze and blaze The north, to-night! So adequate its forms, So preconcerted with itself, So distant to alarms, -- An unconcern so sovereign To universe, or me, It paints my simple spirit With 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 show Will entertain the centuries When I am, long ago, An island in dishonored grass, Whom none but daisies know.
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