Perseus, crouching near Medusa’s throne,
Looked on rows of statues with surprise —
Pink-cheeked youths, arrayed but not alive,
Soldiers whom her gaze had turned to stone;
While Perseus, reflected in his shield,
Resisted death; his image did not yield.
Like Perseus, we age and stalk our fear,
Crouch with our belovèd growing dearer,
And though toward mortality we face,
See only youth reflected in the mirror.