I read this poem by D H Lawrence (1880-1935) for the first time this morning. In fact I read only the last stanza in The Burning Man by Frances Wilson, a book that after reading 10% of it I don’t hesitate to strongly recommend. I found the rest of the pome later. Lawrence wrote the poem over the corpse of his mother Lydia. He and his sister had killed their mother by giving her a large dose of morphine. Although their motive was to relieve her suffering from cancer, Lawrence felt guilty. He had been the love of his mother’s life after his brother died, and she had been the love of his life—much as he tried to escape. As I read the poem I thought of my dead mother. I sat with her as she was dying and kissed her forehead when she was dead. I like the images of my mother sleeping “like a bride” and dreaming “her dreams of perfect things,” and her dead mouth singing “like the thrushes in clear evenings.”

The Bride

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 silver,
            And uncanny cold.

She looks like a youth 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.

Lucien Freud’s drawing of his dead mother