As ripples rest above the shoal,
A pool draws ever-clearer:
The surface stretches out its folds,
A silhouette is rendered whole,
And forms a living mirror.
Atop the sheen, a portrait sways
And dances in the dark;
Take care to glance but never gaze—
Beware the wickedness displayed
Behind this watermark.
Inside its eyes, no soul you'll find—
Its form is not its own;
It may seem clear and well-defined,
But doppelgängers of this kind
Are often mischief-prone.
Look through its eyes and then you’ll know
It’s gathered your mistakes:
What’s been abandoned, what you owe,
The tongue that trampled hearts too slow,
Each mess your ego makes.
When viewing through a mirror-pond
Your double in the glare,
Glance only at the form it spawned;
Ignore whatever lies beyond—
Don’t match your Gorgon's stare.
My deuce, my double, my dear image,
Is it lively there, that land of glass
Where song is a grimace, sound logic
A suite of gestures?
—W.H. Auden, The Age of Anxiety
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