Hel. O, I beg you—
Poe. I would but touch the hand that soothes my blood—look in the eyes that wrap my soul in balm—and you cry out as though some barbarous infidel had trampled you at prayers!
Hel. My father—Roger—they will not understand.
Poe. O, you would bring the world in to say how and when we shall love! Take note of the hour, and kiss by the clock! Great love is like death, Helen. It knows no time of day. If a man were dying at your gates would you keep from him because ’t was midnight and not noon, and you were robed for sleep? It was your soul I sought. Must you array that to receive me? O, these women! On Resurrection day they ’ll not get up unless their clothes are called with them from the dust! ‘Excuse me, God, and send a dressmaker!’ Ha! ha! ha! (Walks the floor in maniac humor)
Hel. Edgar, for love’s sake hear me!
Poe. Speak loud if you would drown the winds!
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!