The Little Mirror

In a dusty old shop that was filled with antiques, 
You picked up a mirror that shined off your cheeks. 
Your eyes were absent of vanity, lit up with glee, 
As if the reflection were a dove, not the girl you see. 
Your surroundings became like a glen or lake, 
Written in some romantic poem by Keats, Yeats or Blake, 
Dedicated to a Goddess who fancied a mere mortal, 
Or even vice versa- the way I worship you eternal. 
My heart is racing, my love, make that smile last; 
Make the pulse of the world beat as mine, steadfast. 
Like rays from the sun you're lighting the way, 
Exfoliating the flora, serenading the day, 
In golden gardens of treasures that shine, 
As your lips bring the breaking of dawn, so divine. 
Such visions make a mockery of the room unpure, 
These wonders made of man are subdued by Nature; 
In craft and design we try to outshine her, 
Yet the mirror seems dim in the hands of my lover.