I think she sleeps: it must be sleep, when low br Hangs that abandoned arm toward the floor; br The face turned with it. Now make fast the door. br Sleep on: it is your husband, not your foe. br The Poet's black stage-lion of wronged love, br Frights not our modern dames:--well if he did! br Now will I pour new light upon that lid, br Full-sloping like the breasts beneath. 'Sweet dove, br Your sleep is pure. Nay, pardon: I disturb. br I do not? good!' Her waking infant-stare br Grows woman to the burden my hands bear: br Her own handwriting to me when no curb br Was left on Passion's tongue. She trembles through; br A woman's tremble--the whole instrument:-- br I show another letter lately sent. br The words are very like: the name is new.