In sublime company she reclines, yet revels in solitude
Indifferent to stray attentions, to the point of even being rude
Half-glimpsed, half-lost, her visage behind a book
She’s Kafka’s willing captive, a stilled fish on a hook
Look—
She’s lifted her eyes now, she’s reading between the lines
How they drill through us, our hopes, our pedestrian designs
See that? cries someone. Why, she just tossed us a glance
‘Twas filled with meaning, nods another. All attitude and stance
Watch her lips quiver oh-so-softly, a story on epiphany’s threshold
In seven chests die seven breaths, what mysteries might now unfold
Our cherished diversion, to speculate the turns her life has taken
Did fortune show her kindness? Was her faith in fortune shaken?
They read too, those that wonder, while the lady reads in her nook
What more could she be, besides being the lady with the book
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