POEM WITH THE LONG LAST LINE

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The natural pond is never a perfect mirror.
Madame stares into her still mirror,
Holding her face still to examine it.
She wonders, which angle do they most admire?
Once, there was one who fell in love with her profile.
She turned. And lost him.
Another would have loved her head were it a blur,
So taken was he by her complexion, her eye’s fire, her hair.
She turned and turned.
She finally turned elsewhere.
Dancing on her inmost eye,
They are all two dimensional now,
Like spots of light on a pond.
But he who loved her profile once,
That gaze on her
And the arc which disappointed him–
The palpable turning which ruined the trust
Between her ear face and his facing eye–
Has the depth of eye, face
And face which turned– alas! to eye
And saw the amazing change–
The man who quickly looked away.
That perfection he knew is all the depth she knows.
She almost saw what he saw in the corner of her eye,
The look askance like peeping dawn,
The beginning of a look
Which will see too much by noon.
She could not see how he saw her.
But he told her the whole madness later, outside their spot on the Champes d’ Elysses.

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