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 silver, 
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.

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