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.

�� �