The Lament of the Looking-Glass

Words from the mirror softly pass 
  To the curtains with a sigh: 
"Why should I trouble again to glass 
  These smileless things hard by, 
Since she I pleasured once, alas, 
  Is now no longer nigh!"

"I've imaged shadows of coursing cloud, 
  And of the plying limb
On the pensive pine when the air is loud 
  With its aerial hymn;
But never do they make me proud 
  To catch them within my rim!

"I flash back phantoms of the night 
  That sometimes flit by me, 
I echo roses red and white—
  The loveliest blooms that be—
But now I never hold to sight 
  So sweet a flower as she."