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.