Aurore Poem by Isadora Quagmire
Aurore
The grey of mountains cold,
Is melting into gold,
The rough—barren quarry,
Dawns a robe of glory,
Trees of frozen lightning,
Are sudden dress'd like kings,
The bare mountaintop still,
Now with much wonder fills,
The sun is burning nigh,
It gilds the azure sky,
It gives me a crown of gold,
It warms my body cold,
It spills diamonds in the grass,
I wish that dawn would nev'r pass.
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9/7/2026 10:13:08 AM # rel_20260904T083623Z_4e76ed0
