What may the woman labour to confess? <br />There is about her mouth a nervous twitch. <br />'Tis something to be told, or hidden:--which? <br />I get a glimpse of hell in this mild guess. <br />She has desires of touch, as if to feel <br />That all the household things are things she knew. <br />She stops before the glass. What sight in view? <br />A face that seems the latest to reveal! <br />For she turns from it hastily, and tossed <br />Irresolute, steals shadow-like to where <br />I stand; and wavering pale before me there, <br />Her tears fall still as oak-leaves after frost. <br />She will not speak. I will not ask. We are <br />League-sundered by the silent gulf between. <br />Yon burly lovers on the village green, <br />Yours is a lower, and a happier star!<br /><br />George Meredith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/modern-love-xxii-what-may-the-woman/
