Poem by George Meredith

Modern Love. Sonnet 22. What May the Woman Labour to Confess?

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

1. Modern Love. Sonnet 23. 'Tis Christmas Weather
2. Modern Love. Sonnet 27. Distraction is the Panacea, Sir!
3. My Theme
4. Angela Burdett-Coutts
5. Modern Love. Sonnet 31. This Golden Head has Wit in it

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