Aurora now, fair daughter of the dawn, Sprinkled with rosy light the dewy lawn.
Alexander PopeRead
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Aurora now, fair daughter of the dawn, Sprinkled with rosy light the dewy lawn.
She was riding a bear! And the Aurora was swaying above them in golden arcs and loops, and all around was the bitter Arctic cold and the immense silence of the North.
Aurora hail, and all the thousand dies,_x000D_ Which deck thy progress through the vaulted skies:_x000D_ The morn awakes, and wide extends her rays,_x000D_ On ev'ry leaf the gentle zephyr plays;_x000D_ Harmonious lays the feather'd race resume,_x000D_ Dart the bright eye, and shake the painted plume.
I have been as sincere a worshipper of Aurora as the Greeks.
The mob is man voluntarily descending to the nature of the beast. Its fit hour of activity is night. Its actions are insane like its whole constitution. It persecutes a principle; it would whip a right; it would tar and feather justice, by inflicting fire and outrage upon the houses and persons of those who have these. It resembles the prank of boys, who run with fire-engines to put out the ruddy aurora streaming to the stars.
With the aurora borealis flaming coldly overhead, or the stars leaping in the frost dance, and the land numb and frozen under its pall of snow, this song of the huskies might have been the defiance of life, only it was pitched in minor key, with long-drawn wailings and half-sobs, and was more the pleading of life, the articulate travail of existence. It was an old song, old as the breed itself--one of the first songs of the younger world in a day when songs were sad.
But they say if you dream a thing more than once, it's sure to come true.
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