The Old Mirror

IN yonder homestead, wreathed with bounteous vines,
A lonely woman dwells, whose wandering feet
Pause often amid one chamber’s calm retreat,
Where an old mirror from its quaint frame shines.
And here, soft-wrought in memory’s vague designs,
Dim semblances her welcoming gaze will greet
Of lost ones that in thrall phantasmally sweet
The mirror’s luminous quietude enshrines.
But unto her these dubious forms that pass
With shadowy majesty or dreamy grace
Wear nothing of ghostliness in mien or guise.
The only ghost that haunts this glimmering glass
Carries the sad reality in its face
Of her own haggard cheeks and desolate eyes!
Edgar Fawcett.