Her unawed face, whose pose so long assumed br Is touched with what reality we feel, br Bends to itself and, to itself resumed, br Restores a tender fiction to the real. br br br And in her artful posture movement lies br Whose timeless motion flesh must so conceal; br Yet what her pose conceals we might surmise br And might pretend to gather from her eyes br br br The final motion flesh gives up to art. br But slowly, if we watch her long enough, br The nerves grow subtler, and she moves apart br br br Into a space too dim with time and blood br For our set eyes to follow true enough, br Or nerves to guess about her, if they would.