He stood, upright and silent,
He faced the glass that was dark.
For the bleakness now faded of its screen...
And the mirror shimmered and bade him hark.
"Know you not, that perfection is myth?
Of intangible thought made living blithe?
Why stand for what does not exist?
Why waste youth for an unmade tryst?"
"True," , he quoth, " 'tis verity you quote.
For, the perfect eludes even the lowliest palpable mote.
But the pursuit of it, without import is not,
For I am set to change for what I sought."
"For the perfection methinks is apropos change,
To be in accord with what I range,
Perfect is the best of what I own,
And the strife to evolve from what was sown"
And the mirror satisfied, declared in gravest of tone,
"Behold O' mortal the vision of perfection unknown."
And the image now clear, it conjured out of air,
He saw his imitation perfect, not less, not more fair.