Littell's Living Age/Volume 148/Issue 1918/In the Mirror

What are they doing up yonder,
Those two in the concave glass?
We speak, we smile, I watch, you know,
The dusky light in your dark eyes glow;
I hear the ring in each word you say,
If the tone be mocking, or soft, or gay;
But those two, our shadows, they sit up there,
The tiny, defined, bright miniature pair;
They never alter, unless the flash
Of firelight leaps from the hoary ash,
Athwart their rest to pass.

Who has sate there before us?
When these faded tapestries shone,
Bright from the dead hands' patient toil
(May Christ the parted souls assoil),
When the storied panes glowed fresh and rich,
New set in you window's carven niche,
And the knightly heads and the golden curls
Of the old past, peopled with boys and girls,
Gleamed there in the days long gone.

Well, they are asleep with their shadows,
We live, love, say it, mine own!
Will you give me your little hand to hold?
Will you let me try it, this hoop of gold?
Will you smile, sweet eyes, and soft red lips?
Will you seal in the hearth-light's warm eclipse
The lover's pledge and the lover's vow?
See, what a pretty picture now,
On the mirror's face is shown!