Roxane
[agitated].
Why, this is love indeed ! ...
Cyrano.
Ay, true, the feeling
Which fills me, terrible and jealous, truly
Love, - which is ever sad amid its transports !
Love, - and yet, strangely, not a selfish passion !
I for your joy would gladly lay mine own down,
- E'en though you never were to know it, - never !
- If but at times I might - far off and lonely, -
Hear some gay echo of the joy I bought you !
Each glance of thine awakes in me a virtue, -
A novel, unknown valour. Dost begin, sweet,
To understand ? So late, dost understand me ?
Feel'st thou my soul, here, through the darkness
mounting ?
Too fair the night ! Too fair, too fair the moment !
That I should speak thus, and that you should
hearken !
Too fair ! In moments when my hopes rose proudest,
I never hoped such guerdon. Nought is left me
But to die now ! Have words of mine the power
To make you tremble, - throned there in the branches ?
Ay, like a leaf amongst the leaves, you tremble !
You tremble ! For I feel, - an if you will it,
Or will it not, - your hand's beloved trembling
Thrill through the branches, down your sprays of
jasmine :
[He kisses passionately one of the hanging tendrils.]
