Skip to main content
The looking glass reveals to me
A spectre which I seldom see—
The sight of me just as I am:
Of flesh and bone—a mortal man.
In younger days, with less reflection,
I thought I had achieved perfection:
Bullet proof . . . forever young.
And thus somehow to life I clung.
But now that days are getting grayer
No more am I a carefree player.
I understand how I’ve been blest,
Sojourning here among the rest.
And I—like they—will wilt and die
(Oh fleeting Time, where did you fly?)
So soon the flesh to dust returns.
Ah, this too late—too late one learns!