Poe. Not doom, my Virginia! (Rising) I will save you, my darling! You shall have everything! With the sickle of a wish you shall harvest the earth! We will sail southern seas! We will follow the Spring as she flies! I will knock at the orient gates and bring thee the health of morning! I ’ll make the world so bright for thee, Hyperion’s self shall wear new gold and shame remembered suns from chronicle! Spring from perfection’s heart shall pluck her buds, and set such gloss on Nature she may laud her old self in one violet’s requiem! O, I ’ll sing the world into a flower for thy bosom! My love, my love, my love! (She coughs restrainedly. He hides his face till she stops) Even the senseless oak velvets its rude sides to the tender vine! But I—a man—O, beast too vile for hell! too low to be damned!
Vir. Edgar!
Poe. Do not touch me! is not the mark here? (Touching his brow) O, where shall I hide it?
Vir. (Drawing him to her) On my bosom, Edgar. (Presses him to the large chair and sits on the arm of it, caressing him) This forehead is as pure as heaven-lit ivory of angels’ brows!
Poe. O, golden heart! (Kisses her over her heart) I will work so hard, Virginia! We shall be rich, and I will take you to some wonderful land where beauty can not die! Will you forgive me then when you are bright and strong in some happy isle of roses?
Vir. I will forgive you now, dearest, if you will do one thing for me.
Poe. O, what, my darling?
Vir. Eat the poor little supper I have cooked for you.
Poe. Yes—yes—I ’ll eat it though it be hell’s coals!
Vir. Now that’s a compliment to your cook, is n’t it? (Takes food from oven and puts it on table. Poe eats, at first reluctantly, then hungrily)