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 youth 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.

This poem is in the public domain.