Poe. I beg your pardon. We must be calm. (Resumes his seat) But God will not stop breathing (with bitter sarcasm) though your daughter—and my wife—is dying. (Mrs. Clemm weeps. He turns to the window) Do you know that elephants once nibbled boughs out there where the snow is falling? They ran a mighty race—and died—but no tears were shed. In the records of the cosmos, if man is written down at all, I think he will be designated as the ‘weeping animal.’
Mrs. C. Are you human?
Poe. I regret that I belong to that feeble and limited variety of creation, but with the next self-diffusion of the concentrated Infinite I may be the Sun himself!
Mrs. C. O, my mother-heart!
Poe. Think a little more and you will forget it. The heart makes the being there on the bed your daughter—my wife—but the mind makes her a part of the divine force which has chosen her shape for its visible flower. The heart is wrung by the falling of the bloom, for it is endeared to that only, but the mind rejoices in its reunited divinity. Come.... (Moves a step toward the bed) I can look on her now ... and be quiet. Sweet rose, I can watch your petals fall. But they fall early ... they fall early ... blasted in the May. Not by the divine breath drawing you home, but by my mortal, shattering hand! I promised you sun and dew.... I have given you frost and shadows. O God! O God! let me not think! Keep me a little, weeping child!
Mrs. C. Dear son, cast out this bitterness. Only your love and devotion have kept her alive so long.
Poe. No! I touched her like a wing of doom, and she fell blasted! (She tries to soothe him) No, no! Call devils from hell to curse me!
(A knock at the door. Mrs. Clemm opens it and a basket is delivered to her. Poe, deep in agony, does not notice. She takes things from the basket)
Mrs. C. O, Edgar! Wine, and soft blankets!
(He looks up, and rushes across to her)