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The Bride

by D. H. Lawrence, 1916

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,
    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.

Published in Amores
Tags: beauty, death, grief, loss, mourning, sadness

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