There's the seer of frolicking clouds posed:
Suddenly, the sky's streams -
Made of melt that the sun creams,
They gloom her dull eyes with dreams
While the umbrella relinquishes closed.

There's the little gyre of a colour:
She'd made the choice of shade -
Brought, no silence, no parade
Or a lively barricade,
While she lived in natural poise, solar.