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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...REMEMBERED WOMEN by CARL SANDBURG PLAYING SOMEONE ELSE'S PIANO by KAREN SWENSON THE KING'S THRESHOLD by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS ALL RELIGIONS ARE ONE by WILLIAM BLAKE CHAUCER; SONNET by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW JUST A-RIDIN'! by ELWOOD ADAMS |