You will remember that one or two of the wise among our forefathers-wise in fact, although not in the world's esteem-had ventured to doubt the propriety of the term 'improvement,' as applied to the progress of our civilization. One word first, my Una, in regard to man's general condition at this epoch. I will not say, then, commence with the moment of life's cessation-but commence with that sad, sad instant when, the fever having abandoned you, you sank into a breathless and motionless torpor, and I pressed down your pallid eyelids with the passionate fingers of love. In Death we have both learned the propensity of man to define the indefinable. And when did the radiant Una ask anything of her Monos in vain? I will be minute in relating all-but at what point shall the weird narrative begin? Above all, I burn to know the incidents of your own passage through the dark Valley and Shadow.

But the memory of past sorrow-is it not present joy? I have much to say yet of the things which have been. Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una-mine, mine, forever now! Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How often, Monos, did we lose ourselves in speculations upon its nature! How mysteriously did it act as a check to human bliss-saying unto it 'thus far, and no farther!' That earnest mutual love, my own Monos, which burned within our bosoms-how vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling happy in its first upspringing, that our happiness would strengthen with its strength! Alas! as it grew, so grew in our hearts the dread of that evil hour which was hurrying to separate us forever! Thus, in time, it became painful to love. And here how singularly sounds that word which of old was wont to bring terror to all hearts-throwing a mildew upon all pleasures! You are confused and oppressed by the majestic novelty of the Life Eternal. How strangely, sweet Una, you echo my words! I observe, too, a vacillation in your step-a joyous inquietude in your eyes. Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, 'born again.' These were the words upon whose mystical meaning I had so long pondered, rejecting the explanations of the priesthood, until Death himself resolved for me the secret.

Edgar allan poe colloquy of una