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 31. This Golden Head has Wit in it
2. Modern Love. Sonnet 30. What are We First?
3. King Harald's Trance
4. Hawarden
5. Atkins

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