He. Even were she so beautiful as thou—lending her your eyes, and the exquisite head which holds them—like a cup two last beads of wine, like a stone two last drops of rain, green, nay, violet, nay, yellow, nay, gold——
He. I can't, Minikin!
Words were never given to man
to phrase such a one as you are—
inanimate symbols
can never embrace, embody, hold
the animate dream that you are—
I must cease.
She. Manikin!
He. And even were she so beautiful as thou,
she couldn't stay beautiful.
She. Stay beautiful?
He. Humans change with each going moment.
That is a gray-haired platitude.
Just as I can see that creature
only when she touches my vision,
so I could only see her once, were she beautiful—
at best, twice or thrice—
you're more precious than when you came!
She. And you!
He. Human pathos penetrates still deeper
when one determines their inner life,
as we've pondered their outer.
Their inner changes far more desperately.
She. How so, wise Manikin?