Sonnet 438

What of proud reason where we see ourselves

Not as we are but as we feign to be;

There not unto true character to delve

Where truth discerned might drop one to the knees.

While in the harshest light of morning’s glass

We primp and preen the image we behold,

But of our inward self cannot, alas

Have any vision of that truly told.

Here then awareness reft of simple truth,

Save of sopped flattery or jaundiced claim

Assumes the bastard forms that we so choose

And in blind arrogance, our virtue name.

Blessed by a mirror, outward truth appraised,

But of the soul, what insight to dispraise?

Loubert S Suddaby poems