The poem
That mirror Which makes of men a transparency, Who holds that mirror And bids us such a breast-bare spectacle see Of you and me?
That mirror Whose magic penetrates like a dart, Who lifts that mirror And throws our mind back on us, and our heart, until we start?
That mirror Works well in these night hours of ache; Why in that mirror Are tincts we never see ourselves once take When the world is awake?
That mirror Can test each mortal when unaware; Yea, that strange mirror May catch his last thoughts, whole life foul or fair, Glassing it -- where?