I thought thou wert a spirit who’d been in heaven long ago.
Ideal.
Never before did I even dream of heaven; and for material answer make I this: Our spirits were kindred, and by that fair relationship I did salute thee so.
Violet.
Now do I know thee: thou art no spirit, but a robber,—a substantial robber who plucked my favorite pink from my window; but I, rising in quick haste, followed thee adown this orchard path. Thou thought’st thou hadst escaped me. I did see thee but half plainly, by the dawn’s most timorous light that through the lattice wooed my pillow.
Ideal.
As thou didst wake! Oh, would I were the dawn’s most delicate light that wooed thy soul’s fair stars exiled within thy crescent-curtained eyes!
Violet.
And if thou wert, thou wert but a robber still. Thou hast the flower in thy hand!
Ideal.