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 D.H. Lawrence
 William Wordsworth

 Absurdum Delirium
 English Literature
 French Literature

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The Bride
The Bride, by D.H. Lawrence
en francais
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,        5
    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        10
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        15
By its shape, like the thrushes in clear evenings.
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