The Mirror

From slumber bright with dreams ot thee

The Mirror

It saw, it knew thy loveliness,
Thy burning lip and glancing eye,
Each lightning look, each silken tresa Thy marble forehead braided by,
Like an embodied music, twined
About a brightly breathing mind.


Alas ! its face is dark and dim ;
No more its lightless depth below That glancing eye shall seem to swirn.

That brow to breathe or glow ; Its treacherous depth -  its heartless hue -
Forgets the form that once it knew.


With many a changing shape and face Its surface may be marked and crossed -
Portrayed with as distinct a grace As thine, whoseloveliness is lost;
But there s one mirror, good and true,
That doth not lose what once it knew.


My thoughts are with that beauty blest, A breathing, burning, living vision,
That, like a dove with wings at rest,
Still haunts the heart it makes Elysian;
And days and times pass like a sleep
Softly sad, and still, and deep;
And, oh ! what grief would wakening be
From slumber bright with dreams of thee!

John Ruskin

John Ruskin (1818 – 1900) , englischer Maler, Philosoph Schriftsteller, Dichter, Sozialreformer, Kunsthistoriker, -kritiker