In your simple, oval frame
You were not well known to fame,
But to me—’twas all the same—
        Whoe’er drew you;
For your face I can’t forget,
Though I oftentimes regret
That, somehow, I never yet
        Saw quite through you.

Yet each morning, when I rise,
I go first to greet your eyes;
And, in turn, you scrutinize
        My presentment.
And when shades of evening fall,
As you hang upon my wall,
You’re the last thing I recall
        With contentment.

It is weakness, yet I know
That I never turned to go
Anywhere, for weal or woe,
        But I lingered
For one parting, thrilling flash
From your eyes, to give that dash
To the curl of my mustache,
        That I fingered.

If to some you may seem plain,
And when people glance again
Where you hang, their lips refrain.
        From confession;
Yet they turn in stealth aside,
And I note, they try to hide
How much they are satisfied
        In expression.

Other faces I have seen;
Other forms have come between;
Other things I have, I ween,
        Done and dared for!
But our ties they cannot sever,
And, though I should say it never,
You’re the only one I ever
        Really cared for!

And you’ll still be hanging there
When we’re both the worse for wear,
And the silver’s on my hair
        And off your backing;
Yet my faith shall never pass
In my dear old shaving-glass,
Till my face and yours, alas!
        Both are lacking!