A lovely reading of a justly beloved painting, and she is right that it rewards long looking. I would only add, in the same spirit, a few details her appreciation already invites. How carefully Klimt sets the lovers at the very lip of the flowered meadow, her bare feet arched and curling against the edge, the blossoms at the brink already beginning to fall away beneath them. How tenderly he frames her head in his hands, two fingers pressed just beneath the jaw, steadying a face turned aside and gone pale with feeling. How strange, too, the thick column of his neck, swollen past anything the body would grant it, the serpent's measure worked into the very figure who bends over her. And how completely the gold dissolves the line between them, until it is hard to say how much of her is still her own. Klimt was a careful man; he hid nothing here that he did not mean to hide. What a beautiful garden they stand in. I find peace in a love that keeps the beloved on solid ground, faces her fully, and leaves her free to stand on her own feet.