I think she sleeps: it must be sleep, when low
Hangs that abandoned arm toward the floor;
The face turned with it.
Now make fast the door.
Sleep on: it is your husband, not your foe.
The Poet's black stage-lion of wronged love,
Frights not our modern dames:--well if he did!
Now will I pour new light upon that lid,
Full-sloping like the breasts beneath.
Your sleep is pure.
Nay, pardon: I disturb.
I do not? good!' Her waking infant-stare
Grows woman to the burden my hands bear:
Her own handwriting to me when no curb
Was left on Passion's tongue.
She trembles through;
A woman's tremble--the whole instrument:--
I show another letter lately sent.
The words are very like: the name is new.
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