These are enchanted mirrors that I bring,
By demons wrought from metals of the moon
To burnished forms of lune or plenilune:
Therein are faery faces vanishing,
And warm Pompeiian phantoms lovelier
Than mortal flesh or marble; and the gleam
Of suns that from Saturnia rose in dream
And sank on golden worlds that never were.

Therein you shall behold unshapen dooms,
And ghoul-astounding shadows of the tombs;
Oblivion, with eyes like poppy-buds,
Or love, with blossoms plucked in Devachan,
In stillness of the santal-pillared woods;
But nevermore the moiling world of man.