Only glimpsed (as how often?) through a glass darkly

She advances almost with disdain, I'd say: as if, at each step, daring daggers to strike, bullets to fly. It can all, of course - by common day - seem an actressy brace against drummed-up ghosts. But then I've never claimed to know her really well and so may, admittedly, have got it wrong. Perhaps, in her own peculiar way she's up to something older than old: imploring Whatever she can manage to address to grant - at some pitchmost depth in the dark - a pillow of stone for that proud head or one great visitant (wings of flame) desperately to wrestle with. Until break of dawn.

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