Magdalen. I think now I can walk again. Smith. No need; We've reached the summit: see, the circling world! Does this seem madness still? Magdalen. Mad happiness: I know we should be here. Ah! there's a man! Smith. My friend, the poet. He has chosen well: The cream-white moon, this high peak of the earth-- The earth, itself the one Parnassus-mount. Magdalen. And have you climbed the hill only for him Bearing me half the way? But answer not: I only wish to feel that I am yours; And that this knowledge may be fully mine, Call me my name. You do not know my name? Smith. And wish not: you are woman; I am man. Why should we limit all the thought of this, Shrouding the Infinite with names? Our life Is haunted by these ghosts ourselves have raised. O lady, we shall never know the truth, What man, what love, what God is, till we cease To talk of them--which all do in the grave. Magdalen. How strange it seems to me and yet not strange: Death, life, I care not which, so I am yours. Smith. And I yours, now, for ever.--Hallowes!--What!-- Asleep?--pale ... dead! ... This was a man too slight, Too sweet to live. I think he has done well: For had he stayed strung naked on life's wheel, Broken by every circumstance of woe, He had gone mad. This sight would pierce my heart, But that yours bucklers mine. A girl-like boy! He used to talk of euthanasia: How has he killed himself? Here's blood! He said That should he ever need to take his life Thus gently would he ope a sluice and die. I loved him. I shall weep some other time. What has he written here? While Smith examines the note-book enter Graham, Brown, and two Men-servants.