The Mirror

Opaque because of the run mercury at its back,
White with a breath of yellow, like tarnished silver,
The old mirror hangs over the chimney-piece
Incased in its carved frame, and reflects the room beneath.
It is warped and bulging, because of the great fires
Of other years; and dim with the sun shining in it every Spring.
Old men and children move before it, and it reflects them all,
Pulling them this way and that in its uneven surface.
The pictures pass over it like mist over a morning window,
And it hangs in its carved frame, tarnished and beautiful,

And reflects everything.