Out—out are the lights—out all!
And over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm—
And the angels all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling affirm
That the play is the tragedy ‘Man!’
And its hero the Conqueror Worm!
Ah! the thought pales from these lines like light from dying cinders. Poetry is but ashes telling that a fire has passed. (Sits gloomily. Suddenly remembers the raven, turns and stares at it) You bird of damnation, leave me in peace with my dead!... O, dreaming fool, ’t is nothing.... My mind ’s a chaos that surges up this fancy. (Tries to write, stops, goes on, trembles, and looks up) ... Can I know fear? I, the very nursling of dreams? Who have lived in a world more tenanted with ghosts than men? I can not be afraid.... (Tries to write. Drops pen. Shudders, looking with furtive fear at the raven) ... I am ... I am afraid.... Virginia! (Creeps toward bed) Stay with me, little bride. My little rose-bride! (Fingers along coverlet, looking at raven) Do not leave me. Quick, little love! Give me life in a kiss! (Touches her hand, shrinks, and springs up) Dead!... (Leans against foot of bed, wildly facing the raven) Speak, fiend! From what dim region of unbodied souls hast come? What hell ungorged thee for her messenger? What sentence have the devils passed upon me? To what foul residence in some blasted star am I condemned? Speak! By every sigh that poisons happy breath!—by every misery that in me rocks and genders her swart young!—by yonder life that now in golden ruin lies!—I charge thee speak! How long shall I wander without rest? How long whirl in the breath of unforgiving winds? Or burn in the refining forges of the sun? When will the Universe gather me to her heart and give me of her still, unthrobbing peace? Speak! When—O when will this driven spirit be at home?
(Silence. Poe listens with intense expectation and fear. The raven flies out) It spoke! (Hoarsely) It spoke! I heard it! (Whispers) Nevermore! (He falls in a swoon. Candle flickers in the wind and goes out. Darkness)
(CURTAIN)
ACT V.
Scene I: Poe’s lodging, Baltimore. Small room. Cot, table, and one chair. Poe writing)
Poe. (Pressing his temples) Throb—throb—but you shall finish this. (Writes) You, too, rebel, old pen? On, on like a lusty cripple, and we ’ll scratch out of this hole. (Lifting pen) Why, old fellow, this will buy bread. O, bread, bread, bread, for one sweet crumb of thee to feed an angel here! (Touching his forehead) Gordon will not fail me. His letter will come to-day. And with his help I ’ll get on good ground once more. And then!... (Writes. Drops pen with a groan) ... Gordon’s letter must come to-day. O, I would live, would live, for seeds are gendering in my mind that might their branches throw above the clouds and shake immortal buds to this bare earth!... (Looks at writing) Words! Ye are but coffins for imagination! No more of you! (Crushes paper) Eternity ’s in labor with this hour! (Leaps up) I could make Time my page to carry memories from star to star! O Heaven, wouldst thou vouchsafe thy visions to these eyes, then fill them with cold clay? Pour to these ears thine own philosophies, then send the crawling worm to pluck their treasure out? (Falls to chair. Enter Mrs. Schmidt)
Mrs. S. (Holding out letter) Here it is, sir.
Poe. (Rousing) What, Smidgkin?
Mrs. S. The letter ’s come, sir.