Under the frame of arms
radiance is being found
for a weave of wading touch.
And now, at last, you know
the taciturn and dormant,
by rising, reaching to a sight,
and so what beauty is
and what she does—
an interval souls hold within,
opened into resonance,
so you see and understand:
what the statues of old hide.
Beauty isn’t if she isn’t this—
a live unbolted speech.
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