There is a frame, a ground where green and brown
Predominate, and there are lines and squares
Marked out, half visible, like blocks of time.
Above some golden section shadows fold
In wide wings like the angel of the North
That they too might be pierced with golden light
And summoned by their maker to come forth.
Each surface offers new shapes and suggestions;
An ancient ship, a fossil in the sand,
A broken lintel and a marble frieze,
And, deft and delicate, just to her left
A faint trace of the muse she incarnates.
But none of these can frame her holy flesh,
Its mystery unmakes each symmetry.
Her face is gentle and contemplative
But in her eyes a yearning, journeying
Far-seeing, pilgrim spirit brightly burns,
And brings to light both passion and compassion.
The light shines on the right side of her face
You cannot see its source until you see
That suddenly the flow and line of sight
Itself has been reversed. She is the source,
Or has the source within her. Gentle light,
A soft and searching light that flows from Eden
Is lifting from this picture into you
For she is lucent, lucid, lovely, golden,
And clothes the light with her tranquility
Admired Miranda, marvel, miracle.
She looks at you, she looks you into love
She looks you into quiet contemplation
Till you are yearning too, not to possess,
Or to desire, but just to contemplate,
Until these broken bars of shade and shape,
These soft green folds around a human form,
The warm tones of this woman, looking out,
And all the gentleness she bodies forth
Have entered you entirely, until
These kindlings and glimmerings of grace
Outface you and you see her face to face