My love looks like a girl to-night, <br /> But she is old. <br /> The plaits that lie along her pillow <br /> Are not gold, <br /> But threaded with filigree silver, <br /> And uncanny cold. <br /> <br /> She looks like a young maiden, since her brow <br /> Is smooth and fair, <br /> Her cheeks are very smooth, her eyes are closed. <br /> She sleeps a rare <br /> Still winsome sleep, so still, and so composed. <br /> <br /> Nay, but she sleeps like a bride, and dreams her dreams <br /> Of perfect things. <br /> She lies at last, the darling, in the shape of her dream, <br /> And her dead mouth sings <br /> By its shape, like the thrushes in clear evenings.<br /><br />David Herbert Lawrence<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-bride-3/
