Poem by George Meredith

Modern Love. Sonnet 15. 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. 

1. Modern Love. Sonnet 24. The Misery is Greater, as I Live!
2. On Como
3. Empdeocles
4. Hawarden
5. Alternation

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