Hel. Listen!

Poe. (Turning upon her) If my body bled at your feet you would stoop to me, but when my spirit lies in flames you cry 'Don't writhe! Don't be a spectacle!'

Hel. (Putting her hands on his shoulders and speaking steadily) The spirit does not murmur. Only the body cries.

Poe. (Calming) Forgive me, Helen!

Hel. Yes, love. (Draws him to couch and sits by him soothingly) ... O, your forehead is on fire.

Poe. No wonder, when I have just come out of h.e.l.l.... Keep your cool hand over my eyes.... O, this is peace!... (Takes her hand from his forehead and holds it) I made you a song out there, in the darkness. I was fainting for one gleam of light when you opened the window and stood as beautiful as Psyche leaning to the G.o.d of love. Listen ... and believe that my heart was as pure as the lines. (Sings softly)

Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore That gently o'er a perfumed sea The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native sh.o.r.e.

On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy cla.s.sic face, Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, An agate lamp within thy hand,-- Ah! Psyche, from the regions which Are holy-land!

(Drops his head to her hand and kisses it gently)

Hel. Edgar, my life shall be my song to thee. (They are silent for a second. His hand touches her book)

Poe. A book! Who could write for such an hour? (Holds book in moonlight) Sh.e.l.ley! Lark of the world! You would know!...

You will give me this book, Helen?

Hel. It is precious. You will love it?

Poe. Always! (Kisses book, and puts it inside his coat. Taking her hand) O, all our life shall be a happy wonder! Wilt lie with me on summer hills where pipings of dim Arcady fall like Apollo's mantle on the soul? Dost know that silence full of thoughts?--and then the swelling earth--the throbbing heaven? Canst be a pulse in Nature's very body?

(Leaping up) Take forests in thy arms, and feel the little leaf-veins beat thy blood?

Hel. (Rising) Yes--yes--I know. Come to the window, love. The soft Spring air begins to stir.

(They move to window)

Poe. O, what a night! 'Tis like a poem flowing to the sea. Here I shake death from my garments. Oh, had my soul a tongue to trumpet thought, men from yon planets now would stare and lean to earth with listening ears!... Hark! 'Tis music!

Hel. (Looking down) A serenade.

Poe. Canst call it that? I hear nothing that comes not from the stars. 'Tis Israfel! The angel whose lute is his own heart!

If I could dwell Where Israfel Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody, While a bolder note than his might swell From my lyre within the sky!

Some day we shall live there, Helen, and then I will sing to thee!

Hel. But now--my love--you must rest--you must sleep.

Poe. Sleep! Nothing sleeps but mortality!

Hel. And you are mortal, Edgar.

Poe. I! Nay, thy love has given me kinship with the deities!

Sleep? Ay, when Nature naps, and G.o.d looks for a bed! When yonder moon forgets her starry whirl and nodding falls from heaven! When Ocean's giant pulse is weary and grows still! When Earth heaves up no seasons with their buds!

No, no, we will not sleep! But see--there gleams the river--and yonder rise the hills touched new with Spring!

Wilt go there with me, Helen? Now!

Hel. Now?

Poe. To-night!

Hel. To-night?

Poe. Why not? You say it as though night and day were not the same to the soul--except that night is more beautiful! Why not go?

Hel. I will tell you, love. (Drawing him back to the large chair) Come, listen. (She sits in chair, and he kneels by her, the moonlight covering them) Because I love you more than you love beauty, G.o.d or night, and you must live for me. And to live means--rest--sleep--

Poe. Do you love me so much? O, 'tis like cool waters falling about me to hear you say it.

Hel. I will help you, Edgar. Already I feel my strength. Where I may serve you I'll not meekly go, but go exultant. The thorns and stones so harsh to human feet, I'll press as they were buds, and leave my blood for kisses.

Poe. Oh, go on.

Hel. Yes, I've more to tell you. It is--that you must help me, too. To-day--before you looked at me the first time--I was dying. Ah, more,--I was about to set the seal of death on my soul. My mother, who died at sea when I was born, gave me a heritance with winds and waves and stars. But I was nursed by hands through whose clay ran no immortal streams. Cradled in convention, fed on sophistries, I wove a shroud about my soul, and within that hardening chrysalis it was dying away when you called it forth in time to live--dear G.o.d, in time to live! Now you see how much you are to me, Edgar. I must not lose you. But you must be careful and patient with me, for my newly-bared soul shrinks from the wonders so familiar to you, and I may fly back to my chrysalis to escape the pain.

Poe. I am not afraid. Would a mother leave her babe? And I am a child now, Helen. This strange, new rest you give me is like a gentle birth. I have been old all my life. Now the longing comes for a little of the childhood that was never mine. The years fall from me, and I have no wish but to lie on a mother's bosom and hear her voice prattling above me.

Hel. (Archly, leaning over him as he sits at her feet) Does my little boy want a story?

Poe. (Smiling) About the fairies, mama?

Hel. About the fairies--and a big giant--and a little girl lost in a wood--

Poe. And a little boy too?

Hel. Yes, a little boy, too! And the little girl was crying--

Poe. And the little boy found her?

Hel. Yes, and he told her not to cry, that he could kill the big giant, and he hid the little girl in a cave--

Poe. Was it a dark cave, mama?

Hel. No-_o-o_! It was a cave--with--windows in it! And by and by he heard the giant coming--

Poe. Oh! (Hides his face on her breast. She holds him to her, her hands on his hair) And when the little boy heard the leaves rustling closer and closer he climbed a great tree--

Poe. (Lifting his head) But he wasn't afraid, mama?

Hel. O, _no-o_!

Poe. Because that little boy was me!