A medieval saint, reconvening her scattered atoms,
Poses for John Copley. The bird perched on her hand
Has just said an amusing thing, at which she smiles.
She could, as a saint, ask that Boston in 1767
Be sunk twenty fathoms deep or buried
In sand or dust or heaps of broken pottery.
She won't, of course; she is much too kind.
Still, knowing she can if she wants to gives her
An implacable serenity which the painter
Understands and envies and captures perfectly.
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