Lewis monologue (Act 1) — The Saint's Tragedy

Loves me! Henceforth let no man, peering down Through the dim glittering mine of future years, Say to himself 'Too much! this cannot be!' To-day, and custom, wall up our horizon: Before the hourly miracle of life Blindfold we stand, and sigh, as though God were not. I have wandered in the mountains, mist-bewildered, And now a breeze comes, and the veil is lifted, And priceless flowers, o'er which I trod unheeding, Gleam ready for my grasp. She loves me then! She who to me was as a nightingale That sings in magic gardens, rock-beleaguered, To passing angels melancholy music-- Whose dark eyes hung, like far-off evening stars, Through rosy-cushioned windows coldly shining Down from the cloud-world of her unknown fancy-- She, for whom holiest touch of holiest knight Seemed all too gross--who might have been a saint And companied with angels--thus to pluck The spotless rose of her own maidenhood To give it unto me!