Whose face this is I think I know–
Though time has hurried with his plow
(Leaving alive the eyes); the face is strafed,
Scored with ruts and roofed by snow.
Had some magic mirror come and chafed
My younger self with this injured image of her face,
I could not have shuddered with more surprise
At my darling’s disordered fate.
Nothing so wild in wild surmise
Would I have conjured for my eyes
Who now at breakfast contemplates the wreck
Time has drifted to my side.
Still, her eyes, measuring my old self as we sit,
Demark no damage to my aspect.