Poe. O, what a night! ’T is 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! ’T is music!
Hel. (Looking down) A serenade.
Poe. Canst call it that? I hear nothing that comes not from the stars. ’T is 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 God 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?