Modern Love XV: I Think She Sleeps

 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.
 'Sweet dove, 
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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