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.