by Ruth M. Hill
A mirror lake, within an emerald grove,
Reflecting dark, tall trees with branches low;
The shadows cool and deep, to where below
In quiet back-curve of a little cove,
As in that strange behind-a-mirror place,
The stems of lilies, with a flowing grace
Find root and to the lucid surface grow.
A roving cloud and bird reflected are;
Nor can a storm this mirror break or mar.
Each storm must pass. And all the tempest tossed
Upon these liquid depths is quickly lost;
The surface scarless, now reflects a star.
A mirror mingling fantasy and scene,
Beneath blue skies a woodland lake serene.