Her presence vibrates there --
the ether is aquiver with her
graceful breathless sleeping.
Not a whisper,
nor a turning nor a flutter
of a single strand of hair
marks her living there,
but the pulse in the air,
the silent song which very nears
some fragrance, even
memory, but no, as yet
just trembling incumbancy:
itself fulfilling and wholly uncraved;
that fearless intangible storming
snaps the banners of her bronze being,
sounds the trumpets of illumined fanfare.