and
writes) ... No. (Rising) No rhymes--for Poesy must mourn
to-night. (Goes toward bed) Too much of her is dead.
(Gazes at Virginia) Cold ... cold. What art thou death? Ye
demons of a mind distraught, keep ye apace till I have
fathomed this!... Ha! What scene is that? (Stares as at
visions) A valley laid in the foundations of darkness! The
unscalable cliffs jut to heaven, and on the amethystine
peaks sit angels weeping into the abyss where creatures
run to and fro without escape! Some eat, some laugh, some
weep, some wonder. Now they make themselves candles whose
little beams eclipse the warning stars ... and in the
pallid light they dance and think it sun! But on the revel
creeps a serpent, fanned and crimson, with multitudinous
folds lapping the dancing creatures in one heaving
carnage! The candles die.... The stars cannot pierce the
writhing darkness.... Above on the immortal headlands sit
the angels, looking down no more, for the dismal heap no
longer throbs.... I must write this! Now! While I see it!
That moaning flood ebbing to silence ... those rosy
promontories lit with angel wings ... and over all as
large and still as heaven, the cold, unweeping eyes of
God!... (Writes.... A tapping at the door. He does not
hear. Another tapping. He looks up) Who's there?... This
is my vigil. Nor devil nor angel shall share it!...
(Listens. Tapping. He goes to door and throws it open) ...
Nothing ... nothing ... but darkness. (Stands peering, and
whispers) Lenore!... (Closes door, bolts it, returns to
table and writes silently. Utter stillness, then a
rattling at the window. Poe leaps up) What's that? (The
shutter is blown open. Poe stands watching. A raven flies
in and perches above door) Out, you night-wing! (He looks
at raven silently) You won't? Why, sit there then! You're
but a feather! (Sits and writes. After a moment rises and
reads)

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