song to thee. (They are silent
for a second. His hand touches her book)

Poe. A book! Who could write for such an hour? (Holds book in
moonlight) Shelley! Lark of the world! You would know!...
You will give me this book, Helen?

Hel. It is precious. You will love it?

Poe. Always! (Kisses book, and puts it inside his coat. Taking
her hand) O, all our life shall be a happy wonder! Wilt
lie with me on summer hills where pipings of dim Arcady
fall like Apollo's mantle on the soul? Dost know that
silence full of thoughts?--and then the swelling earth--the
throbbing heaven? Canst be a pulse in Nature's very body?
(Leaping up) Take forests in thy arms, and feel the little
leaf-veins beat thy blood?

Hel. (Rising) Yes--yes--I know. Come to the window, love. The
soft Spring air begins to stir.

(They move to window)

Poe. O, what a night! 'Tis like a poem flowing to the sea. Here
I shake death from my garments. Oh, had my soul a tongue
to trumpet thought, men from yon planets now would stare
and lean to earth with listening ears!... Hark! 'Tis
music!

Hel. (Looking down) A serenade.

Poe. Canst call it that? I hear nothing that comes not from the
stars. 'Tis Israfel! The angel whose lute is his own
heart!

If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than his might swell
From my lyre within the sky!

Some day we shall live there, Helen, and then I will sing
to thee!

Hel. But now--my love--you must rest--you must sleep.

Poe. Sleep! Nothing sleeps but mortality!

Hel. And you are mortal, Edgar.

Poe. I! Nay, thy love has given me kinship with the deities!
Sleep? Ay, when Nature naps, and God looks for a bed! When
yonder moon forgets her starry whirl and nodding falls
from heaven! When Ocean's giant pulse is weary and grows
still! When Earth heaves up no seasons with their buds!
No, no, we will not sleep! But see--there gleams the
river--and yonder rise the hills touched new wi