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.