And ever and anon his clear-cut, chastened features and his great, solemn eyes were turned skyward—­especially at night when the heavens were sown with stars; for from some one of those bright worlds, peradventure, would she whose absence made the Solitude and the Silence be looking down upon him.  And as he gazed and dreamed, high thoughts took form in his brain—­thoughts of the “Material and Spiritual Universe; its Essence, its Origin, its Creation, its Present Condition and its Destiny,”—­thoughts to be made into a book dedicated to “Those who feel rather than to those who think—­to the dreamers and those who put faith in dreams as in the only realities”—­thoughts for his projected work, “Eureka!” Out of the Silence and the Solitude came the development and completion of this strange prose poem.

Like an uneasy spirit he wandered, night and day, up and down the river bank, in the wood or in the churchyard that held the tomb of his Virginia.

Meanwhile the Mother still kept the cottage bright.  She asked no questions when he went forth, night or day, or when he came in, night or day; but her heart bled for him and sometimes when he would throw himself into a deep chair and sit by the hour, seemingly staring at nothing, but really (she knew by the harassed and brooding look in the great, deep eyes) “dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before,” she would steal gently to his side and with her long, slim, expressive fingers stroke the large brow until natural sleep brought respite from painful memories.  Her ministrations were grateful to him, yet he was barely conscious of her presence.  Not even for her, and far less for any other human being, did he feel kinship at this time.  His vision, when not turned within, looked far beyond human companionship to the wonders of the universe—­the stars and the mountains and the forests and the rivers; but his only real companion was his own stricken heart.  Many times he said to his heart in the prophetic words of his fantastic creation, “Morella,”

“Thy days henceforth shall be days of sorrow—­that sorrow which is the most lasting of impressions as the cypress is the most enduring of trees.  For the hours of thy happiness are over, and joy is not gathered twice in a lifetime as the roses of Paestum twice in a year.”

Yet as the back is fitted to the burden and the wind tempered to the shorn lamb, so again, as in his early griefs, the sorrow of The Dreamer was not all pain, there was an element of beauty—­of poetry—­in it that made it possible to be endured.  Out of the depths of the Solitude and the Silence he said to his soul,

“It is a happiness to wonder—­it is a happiness to dream.”  And more than ever before in his life his whole existence had become a dream—­the realities being mere shadows.

To dream, to wonder, to work; to work, to wonder, to dream—­thus were the hours, the hours of sorrow, spent.  The hours of which the poet lost all count, for between his dreams and his work so intensely full were the hours of vivid mental living that each day was as a lifetime in itself.