THE POET                   255

   Jug. Sick! He's the devil!
   Haines. Then you might as well make his acquaint-
ance.
   Poe. 'Tis here .... death ... and all is yet to
say. 0, I have chattered as a babe! Now, I could speak,
and dust is in my mouth! . . . Helen, you told me to be
content with the letters..... I h            ave tried to read  
to steal God's book. He has punished . . but death
pays my bond. Soon I shall read with His eyes and be
at peace. Peace! (Gives a dying shudder) Never-
more! . . (Rises, staggers to door and opens it wide) 0,
Night, with thy minstrel winds, blow gently on me
dead . . . for I have been thy lover! (Looks back at
the men who are gazing at him intently, and speaks
slowly, erect and godlike) In His own image created He
man! . . (Turns and steps into the darkness.)
                    (CURTAIN)