Modern Love XXII: What May the Woman
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 feelThat 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 tossedIrresolute, steals shadow-like to whereI 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 areLeague-sundered by the silent gulf between.Yon burly lovers on the village green,Yours is a lower, and a happier star!
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