Hel. Why, I don’t think you ever told me that, did you?
Poe. I was just thinking—
Hel. What, darling?
Poe. That I wish you were n’t my mama, so you could be that little girl!
Hel. O, I can, dear. For there were the fairies. We forgot the fairies. They gave me this pretty ring, so that when I put it on I can be whoever I please, and I please to be just whoever my little boy likes best.
Poe. (Rises, and speaks in his own manner) Madonna, Oh, Madonna! You will save me. (Kisses her forehead) Good-night. To-morrow I will tell you about my work—our work. There are miracles yet to be. And Poesy shall speak them.
Hel. But do not try to write out all your soul, Edgar. That cannot be. Poetry is but one gate. The soul goes out by a thousand ways.
Poe. True. And we will find those ways together, Helen. We will gather truth in every path,—truth that flowers out of the struggle and carnage of life like the bloom of song on the crimson of war.
Hel. But we may not know all. Man’s greatest knowledge is but the alphabet of the eternal book. We must be content with the letters, and not unhappily strive to read.
Poe. I will remember. But what mortal can attain shall be mine. Already thoughts that fled my agony come to me as gently as the alighting of birds. Truths open about me like the unfolding of roses yet warm with God’s secret. Good-night. (Takes her hand) I am not the greatest genius, Helen, for I can not stand alone. (Drops her hand and goes to window. Hesitates and turns back) One kiss. (Kisses her) O, look at me! I lose divinity when you close your eyes! Look at me, and I can not fall for Heaven bears me up!