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.