(8 October 1838 – 1 July 1905 / Salem, Indiana)

The Face In The Mirror

Who is it that in the mirror I see?
When have the crows so heavily trod that way?
No barber’s challenge here to justify his fee,
Just thinning hair and beard of grey.

Now my father stares at me,
His, my likeness does replace.
No rebuke, just empathy.
Did he once see his father’s face?

As I use my comb in search of hair,
I ponder – When I have gone my way,
Will my son see my face there?
And I wonder what he may say.

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