The Hand-Glass

I am holding up a mirror
To look at life; in my hand-glass
I see a strange, hushed street below me
Where people pass.

The street is coloured like a picture,
And people passing there
Move with the majesty of story,
And are less real and wise than fair.

Looking at life in a mirror
Is distortion. I must see
Through the paint the flimsy canvas,
I must be

Cynical, and judge no passer
By the colour of a dress —
O eyes that must learn from a mirror,
Search for dust and bitterness!