What of proud reason where we see ourselves

Not as we are, but as we feign to be;

From simple truth our better judgement delves,

Where, once discerned, might drop us to the knee.

While in the harshest light of morning’s glass

We groom and gild that image we behold,

But of our inward self cannot, alas,

Have any vision of that truly told.

Here blind awareness reft of simple truth,

Feeds on vain flattery or jaundiced claim

And molds the forms that vanity pursues,

Then christens them with virtue’s borrowed name.

Blessed by a mirror, outward truth appraised,

But of the soul—what insight is dispraised?