by Eugene Lee-Hamilton
Thou living Riddle, art thou he or not?
Thou art his image, such as it might be
Within the looking-glass; and if not he,
Who else, who else, thou breathing walking plot?
And yet why seek? The golden coin I got
For one I lost, is worth as much to me
If it be stamped alike, and if I see
No difference even in the smallest dot.
Ay, but if underneath that semblance lies
A base and stinking metal? If the mould
Be self-same, but the coin no longer buys?
What if the fair appearance I behold
Were lined with murder? Something in his eyes,
When I would probe them, makes my blood run cold.
Last updated January 14, 2019