his tempestuous youth—and Randy, passing the door which had once opened and closed on that dark figure, had felt the thrill of a living personality—of one who spoke still in lines of ineffable beauty—"_Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow_——" and again "_A dirge for her the doubly dead, in that she died so young_——" with the gayety and gloom and grandeur of those chiming, rhyming, tolling bells—"_Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme_——" and that "_grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore_——"
"Do you think I could write?" Randy had asked one of his teachers, coming verse-saturated to the question.
The man had looked at him with somber eyes. "You have an ear for it—and an eye—— But genius pays a price."
"What do you mean?"
"It shows its heart to the world, dissects its sacred thoughts, has no secrets——"
"But think of leaving a thing behind you like—'To Helen——'"
"Do you think the knowledge that he had written a few bits of incomparable verse helped Poe to live? If he had invented a pill or a headache powder, he would have slept on down and have dined from gold dishes."
"I'd rather write 'Ulalume' than dine from gold dishes."
"You think that now. But in twenty years you will sigh for a—feather bed——"