Thou seest, dear father, that my mother does speak to me, and that I remember, word for word, what she says to me; indeed I am telling you no lie.
The Man (leaning against one of the pillars of the tomb). Mary! wilt thou destroy thine own son, and burden my Soul with the ruin of both?...
But what folly! She is calm and tranquil now in heaven, as she was pure and sweet on earth. My poor boy only dreams ...
George. I hear mamma's voice now, father!
The Man. From whence comes it, my son?
George. From between the two elms before us glittering in the sunset. Listen!
'I pour through thy spirit
Music and might;
I wreathe thy pale forehead
With halos of light;
Though blind, I can show thee
Blest forms from above,
Floating far through the spaces
Of infinite love,
Which the angels in heaven and men on the earth
Call Beauty. I've sought since the day of thy birth
To waken thy spirit,
My darling, my own,
That the hopes of thy father
May rest on his son!
That his love, warm and glowing,
Unchanging may shine;
And his heart, infant poet,
Forever be thine!'
The Man. Can a blessed spirit be mad? Do the last thoughts of the dying pursue them into their eternal homes?
Can insanity be a part of immortality?... O Mary! Mary!