CYRANO: Ay, it is sweet! Half hidden,--half revealed-- You see the dark folds of my shrouding cloak, And I, the glimmering whiteness of your dress: I but a shadow--you a radiance fair! Know you what such a moment holds for me? If ever I were eloquent. . . ROXANE: You were! CYRANO: Yet never till to-night my speech has sprung Straight from my heart as now it springs. ROXANE: Why not? CYRANO: Till now I spoke haphazard. . . ROXANE: What? CYRANO: Your eyes Have beams that turn men dizzy!--But to-night Methinks I shall find speech for the first time! ROXANE: 'Tis true, your voice rings with a tone that's new. CYRANO (coming nearer, passionately): Ay, a new tone! In the tender, sheltering dusk I dare to be myself for once,--at last! (He stops, falters): What say I? I know not!--Oh, pardon me-- It thrills me,--'tis so sweet, so novel. . . ROXANE: How? So novel? CYRANO (off his balance, trying to find the thread of his sentence): Ay,--to be at last sincere; Till now, my chilled heart, fearing to be mocked. . . ROXANE: Mocked, and for what? CYRANO: For its mad beating!--Ay, My heart has clothed itself with witty words, To shroud itself from curious eyes:--impelled At times to aim at a star, I stay my hand, And, fearing ridicule,--cull a wild flower! ROXANE: A wild flower's sweet. CYRANO: Ay, but to-night--the star! ROXANE: Oh! never have you spoken thus before! CYRANO: If, leaving Cupid's arrows, quivers, torches, We turned to seek for sweeter--fresher things! Instead of sipping in a pygmy glass Dull fashionable waters,--did we try How the soul slakes its thirst in fearless draught By drinking from the river's flooding brim! ROXANE: But wit?. . . CYRANO: If I have used it to arrest you At the first starting,--now, 'twould be an outrage, An insult--to the perfumed Night--to Nature-- To speak fine words that garnish vain love-letters! Look up but at her stars! The quiet Heaven Will ease our hearts of all things artificial; I fear lest, 'midst the alchemy we're skilled in The truth of sentiment dissolve and vanish,-- The soul exhausted by these empty pastimes, The gain of fine things be the loss of all things! ROXANE: But wit? I say. . . CYRANO: In love 'tis crime,--'tis hateful! Turning frank loving into subtle fencing! At last the moment comes, inevitable,-- --Oh, woe for those who never know that moment! When feeling love exists in us, ennobling, Each well-weighed word is futile and soul-saddening! ROXANE: Well, if that moment's come for us--suppose it! What words would serve you?