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POEMS. 133
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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