Even as a broken Mirror,[296] which the glass

In every fragment multiplies—and makes

A thousand images of one that was,

The same—and still the more, the more it breaks;

And thus the heart will do which not forsakes,

Living in shattered guise; and still, and cold,

And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches,

Yet withers on till all without is old,

Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold.