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.