Violet.
Which way’s the robber gone? I’m sure I saw him here.
Ideal [aside].
What! I’m a robber, am I? Well, this tree hath no tell-tale bark, and I’ll stay here.
Violet.
I thought I heard some one speak, but not from underground, for he’s not a goblin; nor yet from the sky, for he’s not an angel; nor yet from the earth, for no dreadful man is near. Why, what is that in the sky? ’Tis last eve’s moon, that will not to her couch by day. To rest! pale planet. O gentle moon, where is thy blush? Thou art dismantled by the roseate sun. Alack! what divine dramas are there in the skies!
Oh, would that I within thy circlet’s rim
Might glide by curves of brightening lawns. In thee
The day is half a month till noon, and thoughts
Are gentle as the velvet fawns that glide
From out thy rustling groves. In thee, rare flowers
Their fragrant balms distil, and perfume wreathes
The girdling hours. Let me fancy this!
Ideal.
Now doth she see her fragile fancies rise on wings of gossamer, like one who chases golden butterflies, flying before the dawn. What sweet mysterious alchemy could beauty such as hers persuade!
Violet.