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/
