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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=364131" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Bride</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=364131" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">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. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=364131" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"> 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. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=364131" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"> 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.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=David+Herbert+Lawrence">David Herbert Lawrence</a></strong></div>

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