"And thus thy memory is to me Like some enchanted far-off isle In some tumultuous sea; Some ocean throbbing far and free With storms--but where meanwhile Serenest skies continually Just o'er that one bright island smile." In "_A Dream_" he thus again alludes to her: "That holy dream, that holy dream, When all the world was chiding, Hath cheered me like a lovely beam A lonely spirit guiding. "What though that light through storm and night Still trembles from afar? What could there be more purely bright Than truth's day-star?" About the same time he wrote the lines, "_To My Mother_," the only one of his poems in which he alluded to his wife, concluding with the couplet: "By that infinitude which made my wife Dearer unto my soul than its own life." It will be observed that the sentimental things, in both prose and verse, which Poe has written concerning his love for his wife--and they are but two or three at most--were written immediately after his affair with Mrs. Osgood and the universal charge against him that he had deserted a dying wife for her sake. It is impossible that at this remote period of time it could be understood how seriously--from all contemporaneous accounts--Poe's reputation was affected by this unfortunate episode; especially at the North, where it was best known. When Miss Poe left Fordham, in July, she carried with her a letter from Mrs. Clemm to Mr. John Mackenzie, soliciting pecuniary aid for Edgar on plea of his wretched health. Mr. Mackenzie was at this time married and with a family of his own, but he never lost his interest in his old friend or ceased to assist him so far as was in his power. CHAPTER XXII. THE SHADOW AT THE DOOR. During the winter and succeeding summer matters did not improve at the cottage. Poe, with health completely shattered and spirits horribly depressed, remained at home with his sick wife for the most part, only occasionally arousing himself to write. A lady, who was at this time a little girl and one of Virginia's visitors, afterward told a reporter of how she would sometimes see Mr. Poe writing at his table in the upstairs room, and how as each sheet was finished he would paste it on to the last one, until it was long enough to reach across the floor. Then she would venture to roll it up for him in a neat cylinder, taking care not to disturb him. Sometimes, when he was not employed, he would tell the children blood-curdling stories of ghouls and goblins, when his eyes would light up in a wonderful manner. "I lost my heart to those beautiful eyes," she said.