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 hell.... 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 god 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 shore.On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic 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) Shelley! 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)