Pyrr. Aerial love is but an earthling still,
It must come down for food or mortal die,
And what but virtues feed it?
Bia. Nay, you speak
Of a fair, lesser thing,—a grace not lit
From thurible in uncreated Hand,
But coaxed from clay to a persuaded life.
Garbed as the days,—patched, plastered, hung with dear
Possessive vanities, it serves to make
Contentment's bed, and cook a patient meal
On comfort's hearth,—even snuggles in the void
That else might ache, sings low, and makes
Companioned feet tread bravely to the grave.
It has a thousand names, but never one
Is love. Be thine that white, ungendered spark,
And naught can feed it, naught can make it less.
Virtue and vice, nobility and shame,
Are rags that drop away, while you sweep on,
Stripped as a flame, with arms about your star.
[Pyrrha is silent. Both start at sound of a noise on the water]
Pyrr. What sound is that?
Bia. The rowers are returning.
Pyrr. So quietly?
Bia. [Goes to door and closes it]
The world shall not come in
On me and you. Be mine this broken hour,
And Hieron may flute through after-time
At secret doors where you lock up your favors.
For you will go with him.
Pyrr. A prophet too?
Bia. You'll make his home, but I shall come and go
The unseen master there.
Pyrr. Now for the vision!