Thomas Kinsella, "Mirror in February"

 The day dawns with scent of must and rain,
 Of opened soil, dark trees, dry bedroom air.
 Under the fading lamp, half dressed - my brain
 Idling on some compulsive fantasy-
 I towel my shaven jaw and stop, and stare,
 Riveted by a dark exhausted eye,
 A dry downturning mouth.

 It seems again that it is time to learn,
 In this untiring, crumbling place of growth
 To which, for the time being, I return.
 Now plainly in the mirror of my soul
 I read that I have looked my last on youth
 And little more; for they are not made whole
 That reach the age of Christ.

 Below my window the awakening trees,
 Hacked clean for better bearing, stand defaced
 Suffering their brute necessities,
 And how should the flesh not quail that span for span
 Is mutilated more? In slow distaste
 I fold my towel with what grace I can,
 Not young and not renewable, but man.