The speaker watches his beloved as she lies in death and is struck by a strange transformation. Though she is old, tonight her smooth brow and fair cheeks make her look like a young girl. Her gray hair, threaded like silver filigree, is cold to the touch, but her face is calm and composed. The speaker compares her to a bride dreaming of perfect things. In the stillness of death, she seems finally to have become the image she once dreamed of. Even her still mouth has the shape of singing, like thrushes at evening. The mood is quiet, tender, and slightly eerie: grief mingles with awe and comfort. The speaker is not horrified by her death but almost consoled, seeing in it a return to youthful beauty and bridal peace.
The Bride — Summary
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.