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