The Muse (The Inner Voice), by Auguste Rodin, Victoria and Albert Museum, London
He made you look a little contorted, head heavily hanging, legs and hips, angular, back, twisted. And eyes closed. He has made you heavy and difficult. I know you somewhat differently. You are the merriment in what I see, the fleeting idea touching my mind, the recurring image nudging me:- 'This is important. Attend to this.' Your nearness is wispy as thistledown on the breeze, passing as the morning dew, light as an angel's breath touching my soul.