fevereiro 13, 2013

Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

Moments of Vision

        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?

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