Album-Leaf

A photograph can’t speak or move its face,

And so the ones we find in frames and books

Seem like the real faces of you and me

Now we no longer like each other’s looks;

Self-regard cramps them to stupidity;

Their history of movement leaves no trace.

And this is scarcely queer, but it was queer

That once, during a well-composed embrace,

Something disturbed that studio veneer;

The self-regard of each got holed right through.

Or else we wished it had, or seemed to.