In an old feudal castle hid in France,
Far in the vine-rich South, I found one day
A quaint, rare mirror, which all cobwebbed lay,
Its center shattered as if by a lance.

I looked within and saw, like some strange trance,
The shifting shadows of dead faces play:
Pale profiles that have long been dust and clay,
And phantom forms, sad beyond utterance.

And then I dreamed how, in sweet by-gone days,
The grim queen-mother might have glanced therein
To count her wrinkles and receive no praise;
Or how a king, still deaf by Ivry's din,
Might once have held it on his scars to gaze,
While Gabrielle caressed his tufted chin!