A Poem by Thomas Hardy

             That mirror
         Which makes of men a transparency,
             Who holds that mirror
And bids us such a breast-bared spectacle to 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,
             Reflecting it—where?

[Background and Analysis of Moments of Vision]