Paraphrase (line by line) the poem "Mirror" By Sylvia Plath.

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missy575 eNotes educator| Certified Educator

I am a shiny shade of gray and precise. I do not judge pre-maturely.

Every item within my range, I instantly view

exactly as it appears without applying favor or discontent.

I do not set out to cause pain, only to report the truth -

I am omnipotent, seeing all like a god does, yet only within the reach of my four walls.

For the most part, I fixate on that which appears on the opposing wall.

It appears to be speckled-pink in color. My constant gaze for ages

makes it feel connected to my soul. The wall has moments of light.

Over time, people and night separate me from the view of the wall.


I am now a body of moving water. A bent lady casts herself over me

longing to find herself, her true self, in the depths of my waters.

Various lights, candles and the moon, tell her lies as she turns from me. 

I reflect the truth in her back with honor.

She cries and strikes my waters with her hands, engaging me.

She places great value in me. Repeatedly, she visits.

Every sunrise, she offers her face to replace the hours of dark night.

She lost her youth in me, and has risen from me an older woman

who wrinkles in age with every day, like the scales of fish.


favoritethings eNotes educator| Certified Educator

I am made of shiny metal, and I am truthful. I do not judge.
When I see something, I take it into myself in right away
Just the way it really is, without any emotion to color it.
I'm not mean, I only tell the truth,
I'm like a small god's eye, with four corners.
I usually just stare at the wall across from me.
The wall is spotted and pink. I have stared at this wall for such a long time that
I believe it is actually part of me. However, the wall sometimes disappears.
It disappears behind people's faces and sometimes darkness, again and again.

Now, I'm a calm body of water, and a woman is peering into me,
Looking deeply to see the truth in her own reflection.
But she returns to items that don't tell her the truth: candlelight or moonlight.
I am looking at her back now, and I show it truthfully too.
She cries and wrings her hands when she sees me.
I feel she believes I am important. She's here and then she's gone.
In the mornings, I see her face after the darkness.
When she looks into me, she sees her lost youth, and, her age emerges,
Getting closer every day, like a frightening fish.

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