THE MIRROR.
Ihleading her precious injuries Through all the outlets of her heart The needle at her bidding plies Io and fro with fiendish art. Hithei and thither, quick and slow, The stitches of her fantasy: Never, oh never would he know; Her love must deeply buried lie. To and fro, needle and thread, Her failing heart must never fail; On finger tips small drops of red, But oh, her heart is ashen pale. Put off the old, the new put on; For all her love is gathered there, Enfolded in the old: this one Is but a thing of silk and air. Now like a feather touched by wind She sways across the silent floor: Into another world behind The mirror beckons like a door. There she saw her sister fond Beckoning from the mirror tall, A vision from a place beyond— She saw her droop—and that was all. And when he came, in the -light of the moon He saw where she had fallen down, A little heap in the light of the moon That seemed an old deserted gown. Romilly John, in the New Statesman.
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Otago Witness, Issue 4029, 2 June 1931, Page 63
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188THE MIRROR. Otago Witness, Issue 4029, 2 June 1931, Page 63
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