The Bride

 
 
My love looks like a girl to-night,	
    But she is old.	
The plaits that lie along her pillow	
    Are not gold,	
But threaded with filigree,	        
    And uncanny cold.	
 
She looks like a young maiden, since her brow	
    Is smooth and fair,	
Her cheeks are very smooth, her eyes are closed,	
    She sleeps a rare	        
Still winsome sleep, so still, and so composed.	
 
Nay, but she sleeps like a bride, and dreams her dreams	
    Of perfect things.	
She lies at last, the darling, in the shape of her dream,	
    And her dead mouth sings	        
By its shape, like the thrushes in clear evenings.