I pause before her mirror and reflect

(That's what the mirror does, I take it, too);

Reflect how little it has known neglect,

And think, "O mirror, would that I were you."

She has no secrets that you do not know,

You and yon crescent box of poudre de rose.

And even these long curling irons can show

Much evidence of use, yet naught disclose.

Here, when she smiles, you know it is her teeth

She's putting to the test ere she depart

For the gay revel on the lawn beneath,

Or moonlight ramble that may break a heart.

Here she may blush, until she, red as wine,

Knows that her triumphs have not ceased to be.

Here, when she frowns, and looks still more divine,

You know, wise mirror, that she thinks of me.