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.