The Dreamer’s thoughts dwelt constantly upon these scenes and details until finally the “dirges of his hope one melancholy burden bore—­of Never—­Nevermore.”

Under the influence of the state of mind that was thus induced, a new poem began to take shape in his brain—­a poem of the death of a young and beautiful woman and the despair and grief of the lover left to mourn her in loneliness.  As it wrote itself in his mind the word that had thrilled and charmed and frightened him at the bedside of his mother and to whose time his feet had so often marched, as to a measure—­the mournful, mellifluous word, Nevermore—­became its refrain.

The composition of his new poem became an obsession with him.  His brain busied itself with its perfection automatically.  Not only as he sat at his desk, pen in hand; frequently it happened that at these times the divine fire refused to kindle—­though he blew and blew.  But at other times, without effort on his part, the spark was struck, the flames flashed forth and ran through his thoughts like wild-fire.  When he was helping Virginia to water the flowers in the garden; when he walked the streets with dreaming eyes raised skyward, studying the clouds; when he sat with Virginia and the Mother under the evening lamp or with feet on the fender gazed into the heart of the red embers, or when he lay in his bed in the quiet and dark—­wherever he was, whatever he did, the phrases and the rhythm of the new poem were filtering through his sub-consciousness, being polished and made perfect.

Indeed the poem in the making cast a spell upon him and he passed his days and his nights as though in a trance.  Virginia and Mother Clemm knew that he was in the throes of creation, and they respected his brown-study mood—­stepping softly and talking little; but often by a silent pressure of his hand or a light kiss upon his brow, saying that they understood.  They were happy, for they knew the state of mind that enveloped him to be one of profound happiness to him—­though the brooding look that was often in his grey eyes told them that the visions he was seeing had to do with sorrow.  They waited patiently, feeling certain that in due course would be laid before them a work in prose or verse, presenting in jewel-like word and phrase, scenes in some strange, fascinating country which it would charm them to explore.

At last it was done!  He told them while they sat at the evening meal.

“I have something to read to you two critics after supper,” he said.  “A poem upon which I have been working.  I don’t know whether it is of any account or not.”

The two gentle critics were all interest.  Virginia was breathless with enthusiasm and could hardly wait to finish her supper.

“I knew you were doing something great,” she exclaimed.  “I know it is great!  Nothing you have ever done has wrapped you up so completely.  You’ve been in a beautiful trance for weeks and Muddie and I have been almost afraid to breathe for fear of waking you up too soon.”