Poe. Virginia, Virginia! I pour out my soul to you! I keep back no drop of its sea! From the infinite, shrouded sources of life I rush to you in a thousand singing rivers, only to waste, to burn, to die on the sands of silence! (She remains motionless, her head bowed) ... It is so still upon the eternal peaks. Will you not come up with me and be the bride of my dreams? You need not speak ... you need not say a word. Only put the light of poesy in your eyes and let me see that through the channel of their beauty course the mysteries that begin with God and end not with time! (She looks at him. He gazes into her eyes) ... Tears ... only tears. (Turns away) Can a soul’s eyes be dumb? (She sits, weeping silently) ... Come then ... talk of what you will. Only talk! You have read a little Byron to-day? The new magazine came? And you have made me a handkerchief? (She sobs. He looks at her remorsefully, crosses the room, gets her harp and brings it to the fireside) Come ... sing to me, Virginia. You can do that.

Vir. (Taking harp) What shall I sing, dear?

Poe. Something to charm the very heart of Æolus! That will turn a tempest into a violet’s breath!

Vir. Ah, my love!

Poe. O, sing—sing anything!

Vir. (Sings)

Great and calm, cool-bosomed blue,
Take me to the heart of you!
Not where thy blue mystery
Sweeps the surface of the sea,
Leaving in a dying gleam
Living trouble of a dream;
Not where loves of heaven lie
Rosy ’gainst the upper sky
Burning with an ardent touch

Where an angel kissed too much;
But where sight and sound come not,
All of life and love forgot,
All of Heaven forfeited
For thy deep Nirvana bed.
Wide and far enfolding blue,
Take me to the heart—

(Her voice breaks suddenly)

Poe. Virginia! (She coughs) Don’t! (Her cough increases. She puts her handkerchief to her lips. Poe takes it from her hand and looks at it.) Blood! (Throws handkerchief into the fire, and stands as if paralyzed, gazing at Virginia. Falls at her feet and begins kissing her skirt) My angel! my angel! I have killed my little bride!

Vir. (Urging him gently up) No, dear. I was marked for this from birth. My doom was written by Heaven, not you.