Just as the sheet nearest to hand takes from a master
The true hasty stroke, just so
The mirror often takes into itself
The sole, the divine laugh of a girl,
As she experiences the morning, alone -
Or in the radiance of attendant candlelight.
And later, when this visage actually breathes,
Gives back only a reflection.
What eyes have not upon occasion gazed
Into the long-smoking embers that fade in the fire:
Life-glimpses, lost forever?
Oh, the Earth, who can know its losses?
Only one born into it, and despite all
Whose heart sings out, in tones of praise.
© Robert Temple 2010. Website designed by Jonathan Greet