Of Bronze—and Blaze— The North—Tonight— So adequate—it forms— So preconcerted with itself— So distant—to alarms— And Unconcern so sovereign To Universe, or me— Infects my simple spirit With Taints 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 Completeless Show Will entertain the Centuries When I, am long ago, An Island in dishonored Grass— Whom none but Beetles—know.
