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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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