Poems (Forrest)/The empty mirror
THE EMPTY MIRROR
If she were here, upon this bright spring day,Intent on fripperies, she would go forthTo buy herself a hat (some ribbon ends,A silver buckle, and a flower or twol)And come home with a flush in either cheek,And small hands full of parcels, and would say(The wonderful confection on her head,That halo of a daring milliner!)"You're sure you like it?" Turning from the glassTo press a hurried kiss on my grey hair,And back again to her own eyes-of-youthThe mirror made not half so beautiful!She was such lover of all pretty things,Of fragile laces and of muslin frills,And small enamel discs, and dancing shoesWith silly heels she told me were "quite French,"When nothing really mattered to my loveBut just herself and all her burnished hair.A ring I gave her was her constant joy,A tiny golden loop for happiness. A turquoise setBetween four pearls—no very costly gift—But it was worth to her a King's reward.Alas! A straight white gown is hers to-day.'They do not need gold buckles in the grave,Nor satin ribbons; and the nodding flowersWill grow above her sleep, and weave a veilAnd cover for her little shining head. But she can never turn to me, and smile,"You're sure you like it?" from her vantage pointBefore that oval of reflected joy.
Spring will return through autumn's yellow ways,And in the city windows I shall seeThe 'broidered silken hose she used to crave,The filmy lace, the glory of the hats,The high French heels. . . . While I go homeThrough streets that waver with old memoriesTo find, an empty mirror on the wall.