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object:Edgar Allan Poe
class:author
subject class:Poetry


--- WIKI
Edgar Allan Poe (born Edgar Poe; January 19, 1809 October 7, 1849) was an American writer, poet, editor, and literary critic. Poe is best known for his poetry and short stories, particularly his tales of mystery and the macabre. He is widely regarded as a central figure of Romanticism in the United States and of American literature as a whole, and he was one of the country's earliest practitioners of the short story. He is also generally considered the inventor of the detective fiction genre and is further credited with contri buting to the emerging genre of science fiction. Poe was the first well-known American writer to earn a living through writing alone, resulting in a financially difficult life and career. Poe was born in Boston, the second child of actors David and Elizabeth "Eliza" Poe. His father abandoned the family in 1810, and his mother died the following year. Thus orphaned, the child was taken in by John and Frances Allan of Richmond, Virginia. They never formally adopted him, but he was with them well into young adulthood. Tension developed later as Poe and John Allan repeatedly clashed over debts, including those incurred by gambling, and the cost of Poe's education. Poe attended the University of Virginia but left after a year due to lack of money. He quarreled with Allan over the funds for his education and enlisted in the United States Army in 1827 under an assumed name. It was at this time that his publishing career began with the anonymous collection Tamerlane and Other Poems (1827), credited only to "a Bostonian". Poe and Allan reached a temporary rapprochement after the death of Allan's wife in 1829. Poe later failed as an officer cadet at West Point, declaring a firm wish to be a poet and writer, and he ultimately parted ways with Allan. Poe switched his focus to prose and spent the next several years working for literary journals and periodicals, becoming known for his own style of literary criticism. His work forced him to move among several cities, including Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York City. He married his 13-year-old cousin, Virginia Clemm, in 1836, but Virginia died of tuberculosis in 1847. In January 1845, Poe published his poem "The Raven" to instant success. He planned for years to produce his own journal The Penn (later renamed The Stylus), but before it could be produced, he died in Baltimore on October 7, 1849, at age 40. The cause of his death is unknown and has been variously attri buted to disease, alcoholism, substance abuse, suicide, and other causes. Poe and his works influenced literature around the world, as well as specialized fields such as cosmology and cryptography. He and his work appear throughout popular culture in literature, music, films, and television. A number of his homes are dedicated museums today. The Mystery Writers of America present an annual award known as the Edgar Award for distinguished work in the mystery genre.
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now begins generated list of local instances, definitions, quotes, instances in chapters, wordnet info if available and instances among weblinks


OBJECT INSTANCES [0] - TOPICS - AUTHORS - BOOKS - CHAPTERS - CLASSES - SEE ALSO - SIMILAR TITLES

TOPICS
SEE ALSO


AUTH

BOOKS
Infinite_Library

IN CHAPTERS TITLE

IN CHAPTERS CLASSNAME
1.poe_-_A_Dream
1.poe_-_A_Dream_Within_A_Dream
1.poe_-_Al_Aaraaf-_Part_1
1.poe_-_Al_Aaraaf-_Part_2
1.poe_-_Alone
1.poe_-_An_Acrostic
1.poe_-_An_Enigma
1.poe_-_Annabel_Lee
1.poe_-_A_Paean
1.poe_-_A_Valentine
1.poe_-_Dreamland
1.poe_-_Dreams
1.poe_-_Eldorado
1.poe_-_Elizabeth
1.poe_-_Enigma
1.poe_-_Epigram_For_Wall_Street
1.poe_-_Eulalie
1.poe_-_Eureka_-_A_Prose_Poem
1.poe_-_Evening_Star
1.poe_-_Fairy-Land
1.poe_-_For_Annie
1.poe_-_Hymn
1.poe_-_Hymn_To_Aristogeiton_And_Harmodius
1.poe_-_Imitation
1.poe_-_Impromptu_-_To_Kate_Carol
1.poe_-_In_Youth_I_have_Known_One
1.poe_-_Israfel
1.poe_-_Lenore
1.poe_-_Romance
1.poe_-_Sancta_Maria
1.poe_-_Serenade
1.poe_-_Song
1.poe_-_Sonnet-_Silence
1.poe_-_Sonnet_-_To_Science
1.poe_-_Sonnet-_To_Zante
1.poe_-_Spirits_Of_The_Dead
1.poe_-_Tamerlane
1.poe_-_The_Bells
1.poe_-_The_Bells_-_A_collaboration
1.poe_-_The_Bridal_Ballad
1.poe_-_The_City_In_The_Sea
1.poe_-_The_City_Of_Sin
1.poe_-_The_Coliseum
1.poe_-_The_Conqueror_Worm
1.poe_-_The_Conversation_Of_Eiros_And_Charmion
1.poe_-_The_Divine_Right_Of_Kings
1.poe_-_The_Forest_Reverie
1.poe_-_The_Happiest_Day-The_Happiest_Hour
1.poe_-_The_Haunted_Palace
1.poe_-_The_Power_Of_Words_Oinos.
1.poe_-_The_Raven
1.poe_-_The_Sleeper
1.poe_-_The_Valley_Of_Unrest
1.poe_-_The_Village_Street
1.poe_-_To_--
1.poe_-_To_--_(2)
1.poe_-_To_--_(3)
1.poe_-_To_F--
1.poe_-_To_Frances_S._Osgood
1.poe_-_To_Helen_-_1831
1.poe_-_To_Helen_-_1848
1.poe_-_To_Isadore
1.poe_-_To_M--
1.poe_-_To_Marie_Louise_(Shew)
1.poe_-_To_My_Mother
1.poe_-_To_One_Departed
1.poe_-_To_One_In_Paradise
1.poe_-_To_The_Lake
1.poe_-_To_The_River
1.poe_-_Ulalume
The_Gold_Bug

IN CHAPTERS TEXT
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Shunned_House
1.lovecraft_-_Waste_Paper-_A_Poem_Of_Profound_Insignificance
1.poe_-_A_Dream
1.poe_-_A_Dream_Within_A_Dream
1.poe_-_Al_Aaraaf-_Part_1
1.poe_-_Al_Aaraaf-_Part_2
1.poe_-_Alone
1.poe_-_An_Acrostic
1.poe_-_An_Enigma
1.poe_-_Annabel_Lee
1.poe_-_A_Paean
1.poe_-_A_Valentine
1.poe_-_Dreamland
1.poe_-_Dreams
1.poe_-_Eldorado
1.poe_-_Elizabeth
1.poe_-_Enigma
1.poe_-_Epigram_For_Wall_Street
1.poe_-_Eulalie
1.poe_-_Eureka_-_A_Prose_Poem
1.poe_-_Evening_Star
1.poe_-_Fairy-Land
1.poe_-_For_Annie
1.poe_-_Hymn
1.poe_-_Hymn_To_Aristogeiton_And_Harmodius
1.poe_-_Imitation
1.poe_-_Impromptu_-_To_Kate_Carol
1.poe_-_In_Youth_I_have_Known_One
1.poe_-_Israfel
1.poe_-_Lenore
1.poe_-_Romance
1.poe_-_Sancta_Maria
1.poe_-_Serenade
1.poe_-_Song
1.poe_-_Sonnet-_Silence
1.poe_-_Sonnet_-_To_Science
1.poe_-_Sonnet-_To_Zante
1.poe_-_Spirits_Of_The_Dead
1.poe_-_Tamerlane
1.poe_-_The_Bells
1.poe_-_The_Bells_-_A_collaboration
1.poe_-_The_Bridal_Ballad
1.poe_-_The_City_In_The_Sea
1.poe_-_The_City_Of_Sin
1.poe_-_The_Coliseum
1.poe_-_The_Conqueror_Worm
1.poe_-_The_Conversation_Of_Eiros_And_Charmion
1.poe_-_The_Divine_Right_Of_Kings
1.poe_-_The_Forest_Reverie
1.poe_-_The_Happiest_Day-The_Happiest_Hour
1.poe_-_The_Haunted_Palace
1.poe_-_The_Power_Of_Words_Oinos.
1.poe_-_The_Raven
1.poe_-_The_Sleeper
1.poe_-_The_Valley_Of_Unrest
1.poe_-_The_Village_Street
1.poe_-_To_--
1.poe_-_To_--_(2)
1.poe_-_To_--_(3)
1.poe_-_To_F--
1.poe_-_To_Frances_S._Osgood
1.poe_-_To_Helen_-_1831
1.poe_-_To_Helen_-_1848
1.poe_-_To_Isadore
1.poe_-_To_M--
1.poe_-_To_Marie_Louise_(Shew)
1.poe_-_To_My_Mother
1.poe_-_To_One_Departed
1.poe_-_To_One_In_Paradise
1.poe_-_To_The_Lake
1.poe_-_To_The_River
1.poe_-_Ulalume
Book_of_Imaginary_Beings_(text)
The_Gold_Bug
The_House_of_Asterion

PRIMARY CLASS

author
SIMILAR TITLES
Edgar Allan Poe

DEFINITIONS


TERMS STARTING WITH

Edgar Allan Poe. New York: Limited Editions


TERMS ANYWHERE

Edgar Allan Poe. New York: Limited Editions

Editions Club The Poems of Edgar Allan Poe is a

Poe, Edgar Allan. The Works of Edgar Allan Poe. 10 vols.

Quinn, Arthur Hobson. Edgar Allan Poe, A Critical

The Works of Edgar Allan Poe.]



QUOTES [20 / 20 - 1319 / 1319]


KEYS (10k)

   20 Edgar Allan Poe

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

1226 Edgar Allan Poe
   4 Anonymous
   3 Stephen King
   3 Ralph Ellison
   3 Paul Collins
   3 Nassim Nicholas Taleb
   3 Edgar Allan Poe
   3 Andrew Barger
   2 Theodore Roosevelt
   2 P G Wodehouse
   2 Kurt Vonnegut
   2 John Green
   2 Delmore Schwartz

1:Lord help my poor soul. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
2:Even in the grave, all is not lost. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
3:And all I loved,
I loved alone.
   ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
4:I am a writer. Therefore. I am not sane. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
5:There is an eloquence in true enthusiasm." ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
6:Believe nothing you hear, and only one half that you see. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
7:I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen the damnable atrocity. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
8:I do believe God gave me a spark of genius, but he quenched it in misery. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
9:A short story must have a single mood and every sentence must build towards it. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
10:If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.
   ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
11:And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense?
   ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
12:Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
13:The idea of God, infinity, or spirit stands for the possible attempt at an impossible conception. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
14:Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
15:O God! Can I not save
   One from the pitiless wave?
   Is all that we see or seem
   But a dream within a dream?
   ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
16:Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
   ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
17:The ninety and nine are with dreams, content, but the hope of the world made new, is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
18:The higher powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more usefully tasked by the unostentatious game of draughts than by all the elaborate frivolity of chess. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
19:When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect - they refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of soul - not of intellect, or of heart. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
20:I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:Lord help my poor soul. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
2:Leave my loneliness unbroken ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
3:And all I loved, I loved alone. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
4:I fell in love with melancholy. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
5:And I fell violently on my face. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
6:The past is a pebble in my shoe. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
7:Blood was its Avatar and its seal. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
8:Art is to look at not to criticize. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
9:Even in the grave, all is not lost. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
10:Yes," I said, "for the love of God! ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
11:Grammar is the analysis of language. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
12:Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
13:Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
14:Sound loves to revel in a summer night. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
15:False hope is nicer than no hope at all. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
16:Invisible things are the only realities. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
17:Stupidity is a talent for misconception. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
18:The best things in life make you sweaty. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
19:Convinced myself, I seek not to convince. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
20:To elevate the soul, poetry is necessary. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
21:The believer is happy. The doubter is wise. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
22:There is no beauty without some strangeness ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
23:The true genius shudders at incompleteness. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
24:I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
25:All works of art should begin... at the end. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
26:We loved with a love that was more than love. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
27:A wise man hears one word and understands two. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
28:I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
29:The fever called "living" Is conquer'd at last. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
30:Perversity is the human thirst for self-torture. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
31:Those who gossip with you will gossip about you. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
32:To observe attentively is to remember distinctly. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
33:A mystery, and a dream, should my early life seem. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
34:Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
35:Yet, mad am I not ‚ and very surely do I not dream. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
36:I intend to put up with nothing that I can put down. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
37:Deep in earth my love is lying And I must weep alone. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
38:Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
39:Who cares how time advances? I am drinking ale today. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
40:With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
41:All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
42:A gentleman with a pug nose is a contradiction in terms. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
43:I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
44:Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
45:Sleep, those little slices of death ‚ how I loathe them. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
46:If you run out of ideas follow the road; you'll get there ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
47:Mysteries force a man to think, and so injure his health. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
48:A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
49:It would be mockery to call such dreariness heaven at all. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
50:Me volví loco, con largos intervalos de horrible cordura. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
51:The customs of the world are so many conventional follies. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
52:Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
53:Democracy is a very admirable form of government - for dogs ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
54:I have no words alas! to tell the loveliness of loving well ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
55:Never to suffer would have been never to have been blessed. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
56:Believe only half of what you see and nothing that you hear. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
57:The plots of God are perfect. The Universe is a plot of God. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
58:Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
59:The people have nothing to do with the laws but to obey them. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
60:The rudiment of verse may, possibly, be found in the spondee. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
61:From a proud tower in the town, Death looks gigantically down. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
62:The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
63:You call it hope-that fire of fire! It is but agony of desire. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
64:And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
65:Every poem should remind the reader that they are going to die. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
66:-ev'n with us the breath Of Science dims the mirror of our joy. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
67:I remained too much inside my head and ended up losing my mind. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
68:But Psyche uplifting her finger said: Sadly this star I mistrust ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
69:It is a happiness to wonder; - it is a happiness to dream. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
70:Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore! ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
71:In efforts to soar above our nature, we invariably fall below it. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
72:Melancholy is ... the most legitimate of all the poetical tones. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
73:The eye, like a shattered mirror, multiplies the images of sorrow ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
74:There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
75:To die laughing must be the most glorious of all glorious deaths! ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
76:A lie travels round the world while truth is putting her boots on. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
77:All suffering originates from craving, from attachment, from desire. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
78:And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting... ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
79:... for her whom in life thou dids't abhor, in death thou shalt adore ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
80:And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
81:And so, being young and dipt in folly, I fell in love with melancholy. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
82:I have great faith in fools,‚ self-confidence my friends will call it. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
83:That the play is the tragedy, ‚ Man, And its hero, the Conqueror Worm. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
84:If a poem hasn't ripped apart your soul; you haven't experienced poetry. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
85:No man who ever lived knows any more about the hereafter than you and I. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
86:I dread the events of the future, not in themselves but in their results. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
87:Scorching my seared heart with a pain, not hell shall make me fear again. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
88:A million candles have burned themselves out. Still I read on. (Montresor) ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
89:I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
90:Reality is the
91:Indeed, there is an eloquence in true enthusiasm that is not to be doubted. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
92:Man is an animal that diddles, and there is no animal that diddles but man. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
93:The goodness of your true pun is in the direct ratio of its intolerability. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
94:And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
95:If you are ever drowned or hung, be sure and make a note of your sensations. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
96:This maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
97:A poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
98:Happiness is not to be found in knowledge, but in the acquisition of knowledge ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
99:If a man deceives me once, shame on him; if he deceives me twice, shame on me. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
100:A short story must have a single mood and every sentence must build towards it. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
101:For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
102:How many good books suffer neglect through the inefficiency of their beginnings! ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
103:I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
104:... the agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long and final scream of despair. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
105:The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
106:I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect - in terror. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
107:The reproduction of what the senses perceive in nature through the veil of the soul. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
108:Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best have gone to their eternal rest. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
109:Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
110:In for ever knowing, we are for ever blessed; but to know all were the curse of a fiend ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
111:Man's real life is happy, chiefly because he is ever expecting that it soon will be so. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
112:The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
113:The generous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to admire. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
114:The world is a great ocean, upon which we encounter more tempestuous storms than calms. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
115:Imperceptibly the love of these discords grew upon me as my love of music grew stronger. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
116:Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
117:I have before suggested that a genuine blackguard is never without a pocket-handkerchief. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
118:It all depends on the robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber. - Daupin ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
119:True! - nervous - very, very nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
120:A man's grammar, like Caesar's wife, must not only be pure, but above suspicion of impurity. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
121:Boston: Their hotels are bad. Their pumpkin pies are delicious. Their poetry is not so good. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
122:If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
123:It was night, and the rain fell; and falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
124:There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
125:You will observe that the stories told are all about money-seekers, not about money-finders. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
126:Literature is the most noble of professions. In fact, it is about the only one fit for a man. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
127:To vilify a great man is the readiest way in which a little man can himself attain greatness. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
128:All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
129:They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
130:Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,- Perched, and sat, and nothing more. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
131:That man is not truly brave who is afraid either to seem or to be, when it suits him, a coward. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
132:The rain came down upon my head - Unshelter'd. And the wind rendered me mad and deaf and blind. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
133:When a madman appears thoroughly sane, indeed, it is high time to put him in a straight jacket. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
134:We had always dwelled together, beneath a tropical sun, in the Valley of the Many Colored Grass. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
135:And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but overacuteness of the senses? ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
136:Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door! Quoth the raven, ‚Nevermore. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
137:The idea of God, infinity, or spirit stands for the possible attempt at an impossible conception. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
138:A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet . . . yet the fool has never read Shakespeare. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
139:The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where she is found. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
140:The greater amount of truth is impulsively uttered; thus the greater amount is spoken, not written. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
141:And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted - Nevermore! ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
142:Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
143:Of puns it has been said that those who most dislike them are those who are least able to utter them. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
144:We allude to the short prose narrative, requiring from a half hour to one or two hours in its perusal ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
145:The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of Artist ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
146:In the deepest slumber-no! In delirium-no! In a swoon-no! In death-no! even in the grave all is not lost. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
147:It is the nature of truth in general, as of some ores in particular, to be richest when most superficial. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
148:Even for those to whom life and death are equal jests. There are some things that are still held in respect. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
149:It may be roundly asserted that human ingenuity cannot concoct a cipher which human ingenuity cannot resolve. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
150:A poem in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having for its immediate object, pleasure, not truth. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
151:It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
152:To be thoroughly conversant with Man’s heart, is to take our final lesson in the iron-clasped volume of Despair ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
153:I have made no money. I am as poor now as ever I was in my life - except in hope, which is by no means bankable. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
154:Tell me truly, I implore&
155:Decorum - that bug-bear which deters so many from bliss until the opportunity for bliss has forever gone by. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
156:As a poet and as a mathematician, he would reason well; as a mere mathematician, he could not have reasoned at all. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
157:If in many of my productions terror has been the thesis, I maintain that terror is not of Germany, but of the soul. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
158:It is with literature as with law or empire - an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in possession. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
159:Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
160:Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
161:Sometimes I’m terrified of my heart; of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants. The way it stops and starts. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
162:I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
163:There are moments when, even to the sober eye of Reason, the world of our sad humanity must assume the aspect of Hell. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
164:Every moment of the night Forever changing places And they put out the star-light With the breath from their pale faces ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
165:In me didst thou exist-and, in my death, see by this image, which is thine own, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
166:We gave the Future to the winds, and slumbered tranquilly in the Present, weaving the dull world around us into dreams. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
167:And then there stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note, the thought of what sweet rest there must be in the grave. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
168:Children are never too tender to be whipped. Like tough beefsteaks, the more you beat them, the more tender they become. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
169:... If you do not take it up with you in some way, I shall be under the necessity of breaking your head with this shovel ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
170:If we cannot comprehend God in his visible works, how then in his inconceivable thoughts, that call the works into being? ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
171:We gave him a hearty welcome, for there was nearly half as much of the entertaining as of the contemptible about the man. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
172:In criticism I will be bold, and as sternly, absolutely just with friend and foe. From this purpose nothing shall turn me. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
173:Believe me, there exists no such dilemma as that in which a gentleman is placed when he is forced to reply to a blackguard. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
174:I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, "a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
175:It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
176:The pioneers and missionaries of religion have been the real cause of more trouble and war than all other classes of mankind. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
177:In reading some books we occupy ourselves chiefly with the thoughts of the author; in perusing others, exclusively with our own. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
178:Over the Mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow, Ride, boldly ride," The shade replied,- "If you seek for Eldorado. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
179:Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells, From the bells, bells, bells. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
180:The true genius shudders at incompleteness - and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
181:I call to mind flatness and dampness; and then all is madness - the madness of a memory which busies itself among forbidden things. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
182:In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed&
183:He knew that Hop-Frog was not fond of wine; for it excited the poor cripple almost to madness; and madness is no comfortable feeling. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
184:It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
185:He is, as you say, a remarkable horse, a prodigious horse, although as you very justly observe, a suspicious and untractable character. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
186:I am walking like a bewitched corpse, with the certainty of being eaten by the infinite, of being annulled by the only existing Absurd. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
187:In the marginalia ... we talk only to ourselves; we therefore talk freshly - boldly - originally - with abandonment - without conceit. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
188:Marking a book is literally an experience of your differences or agreements with the author. It is the highest respect you can pay him. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
189:Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
190:The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins? ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
191:The result of law inviolate is perfection–right–negative happiness. The result of law violate is imperfection, wrong, positive pain. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
192:Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day; or the agonies which are have their origins in ecstasies which might have been. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
193:It may well be doubted whether human ingenuity can construct an enigma... which human ingenuity may not, by proper application, resolve. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
194:Now this is the point. You fancy me a mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
195:Villains!' I shrieked. &
196:the truth is, I am heartily sick of this life & of the nineteenth century in general. (I am convinced that every thing is going wrong.) ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
197:If any ambitious man have a fancy to revolutionize, at one effort, the universal world of human thought, human opinion, and human sentiment. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
198:[The daguerreotype] itself must undoubtedly be regarded as the most important, and perhaps the most extraordinary triumph of modern science. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
199:There are certain themes of which the interest is all-absorbing, but which are too entirely horrible for the purposes of legitimate fiction. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
200:To him, who still would gaze upon the glory of the summer sun, there comes, when that sun will from him part, a sullen hopelessness of heart. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
201:For years your name never passed my lips, while my soul drank in, with a delirious thirst, all that was uttered in my presence respecting you. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
202:Life is for the strong, to be lived by the strong and if need be, taken by the strong. The weak were put on earth to give the strong pleasure. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
203:There is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of him who, shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a Plunge. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
204:Thank Heaven! The crisis /The danger is past, and the lingering illness, is over at last /, and the fever called "Living" is conquered at last. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
205:Always keep a big bottle of booze at your side. If a bird starts talking nonsense to you in the middle of the night pour yourself a stiff drink. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
206:For my own part, I have never had a thought which I could not set down in words, with even more distinctness than that with which I conceived it. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
207:He must be theory-mad beyond redemption who ... shall ... persist in attempting to reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
208:There are few cases in which mere popularity should be considered a proper test of merit; but the case of song-writing is, I think, one of the few. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
209:Whether people grow fat by joking, or whether there is something in fat itself which predisposes to a joke, I have never been quite able to determine. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
210:In the Heaven's above, the angels, whispering to one another, can find, among their burning terms of love, none so devotional as that of &
211:That pleasure which is at once the most pure, the most elevating and the most intense, is derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the beautiful. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
212:The most natural, and, consequently, the truest and most intense of the human affections are those which arise in the heart as if by electric sympathy. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
213:Experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger portion of the truth arises from the seemingly irrelevant. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
214:The ninety and nine are with dreams, content but the hope of the world made new, is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
215:I found him well educated, with unusual powers of mind, but infected with misanthropy, and subject to perverse moods of alternate enthusiasm and melancholy. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
216:Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore! Quoth the raven, `Nevermore. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
217:There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
218:I have been happy, though in a dream. I have been happy-and I love the theme: Dreams! in their vivid colouring of life As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
219:No pictorial or sculptural combinations of points of human loveliness, do more than approach the living and breathing human beauty as it gladdens our daily path. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
220:And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"‚ here I opened wide the door; ‚ Darkness there, and nothing more. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
221:As a viewed myself in a fragment of looking-glass... , I was so impressed with a sense of vague awe at my appearance ... that I was seized with a violent tremour. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
222:In one case out of a hundred a point is excessively discussed because it is obscure; in the ninety-nine remaining it is obscure because it is excessively discussed. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
223:In our endeavors to recall to memory something long forgotten, we often find ourselves upon the very verge of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
224:Music, when combined with a pleasurable idea, is poetry; music, without the idea, is simply music; the idea, without the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
225:Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors ... on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
226:If the propositions of this Discourse are tenable, the "state of progressive collapse" is precisely that state in which alone we are warranted in considering All Things. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
227:Sensations are the great things, after all. Should you ever be drowned or hung, be sure and make a note of your sensations; they will be worth to you ten guineas a sheet. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
228:There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart - an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
229:From childhood's hour I have not been. As others were, I have not seen. As others saw, I could not awaken. My heart to joy at the same tone. And all I loved, I loved alone. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
230:If I could dwell where Israfel hath dwelt and he where I he might not sing so wildly well a mortal melody while a bolder note then this might swell from my lyre in the sky. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
231:And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams&
232:A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
233:The higher powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more usefully tasked by the unostentatious game of draughts than by all the elaborate frivolity of chess. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
234:As the strong man exults in his physical ability, delighting in such exercises as call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that moral activity which disentangles. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
235:In [chess], where the pieces have different and "bizarre" motions, with various and variable values, what is only complex, is mistaken (a not unusual error) for what is profound ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
236:One half of the pleasure experienced at a theatre arises from the spectator's sympathy with the rest of the audience, and, especially from his belief in their sympathy with him. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
237:The analytical power should not be confounded with simple ingenuity; for while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often remarkably incapable of analysis. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
238:Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever! Let the bell toll!-a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river; And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?-weep now or nevermore! ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
239:As an individual, I myself feel impelled to fancy ... a limitless succession of Universes... . Each exists, apart and independently, in the bosom of its proper and particular God. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
240:Men of genius are far more abundant than is supposed. In fact, to appreciate thoroughly the work of what we call genius, is to possess all the genius by which the work was produced. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
241:I am actuated by an ambition which I believe to be an honourable one ¬ó the ambition of serving the great cause of truth, while endeavouring to forward the literature of the country. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
242:Alas! for that accursed time They bore thee o'er the billow, From love to titled age and crime, And an unholy pillow! From me, and from our misty clime, Where weeps the silver willow! ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
243:My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be conveyed: and here I may as well observe that, throughout the construction, I kept steadily in view the design. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
244:There are some qualities, some incorporate things, that have a double life, which thus is made. A type os twin entity which springs from matter and light, envinced in solid and shade. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
245:I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of golden sand- How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep- while I weep! ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
246:..bear in mind that, in general, it is the object of our newspapers rather to create a sensation-to make a point-than to further the cause of truth." Dupin in "The Mystery of Marie Roget ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
247:By undue profundity we perplex and enfeeble thought; and it is possible to make even Venus herself vanish from the firmament by a scrutiny too sustained, too concentrated, or too direct. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
248:Many years ago, I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William Legrand. He was of an ancient Huguenot family, and had once been wealthy; but a series of misfortunes had reduced him to want. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
249:Odors have an altogether peculiar force, in affecting us through association; a force differing essentially from that of objects addressing the touch, the taste, the sight or the hearing. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
250:How much more intense is the excitement wrought in the feelings of a crowd by the contemplation of human agony, than that brought about by the most appalling spectacles of inanimate matter. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
251:I seemed to be upon the verge of comprehension, without the power to comprehend as men, at time, find themselves upon the brink of rememberance, without being able, in the end, to remember. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
252:And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
253:That is another of your odd notions," said the Prefect, who had a fashion of calling every thing "odd" that was beyond his comprehension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of "oddities. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
254:The death then of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world, and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
255:A strong argument for the religion of Christ is this - that offences against Charity are about the only ones which men on their death-beds can be made - not to understand - but to feel - as crime. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
256:Dreams are the eraser dust I blow off my page. They fade into the emptiness, another dark gray day. Dreams are only memories of the plans I had back then. Dreams are eraser dust and now I use a pen. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
257:True, nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am, but why will say that I am mad?! The disease had haunted my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Of all the sense of hearing acute. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
258:We now demand the light artillery of the intellect; we need the curt, the condensed, the pointed, the readily diffused - in place of the verbose, the detailed, the voluminous, the inaccessible. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
259:I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love- I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
260:A short story is "a short prose narrative, requiring from a half hour, to one or two hours in its perusal... having conceived, with deliberate care, a certain unique or single effect to be wrought out. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
261:The most &
262:The Romans worshipped their standard; and the Roman standard happened to be an eagle. Our standard is only one tenth of an eagle,&
263:The sole purpose is to provide infinite springs, at which the soul may allay the eternal thirst TO KNOW which is forever unquenchable within it, since to quench it, would be to extinguish the soul's self. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
264:I have no faith in human perfectability. I think that human exertion will have no appreciable effect upon humanity. Man is now only more active - not more happy - nor more wise, than he was 6000 years ago. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
265:I was cautious in what I said before the young lady; for I could not be sure that she was sane; and, in fact, there was a certain restless brilliancy about her eyes that half led me to imagine she was not. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
266:Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem per se, the circumstance ... which, in the first place, gave rise to the intention of composing a poem that should suit at once the popular and the critical taste. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
267:When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect - they refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of soul - not of intellect, or of heart. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
268:The unity of effect or impression is a point of the greatest importance. It is clear, moreover, that this unity cannot be thoroughly preserved in productions whose perusal cannot be completed at one sitting. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
269:There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
270:The object, Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and the object, Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although attainable, to a certain extent, in poetry, far more readily attainable in prose. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
271:It is the curse of a certain order of mind, that it can never rest satisfied with the consciousness of its ability to do a thing.Still less is it content with doing it. It must both know and show how it was done. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
272:I have not only labored solely for the benefit of others (receiving for myself a miserable pittance), but have been forced to model my thoughts at the will of men whose imbecility was evident to all but themselves ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
273:In the tale proper&
274:The best chess-player in Christendom may be little more than the best player of chess; but proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all those more important undertakings where mind struggles with mind. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
275:The writer who neglects punctuation, or mispunctuates, is liable to be misunderstood for the want of merely a comma, it often occurs that an axiom appears a paradox, or that a sarcasm is converted into a sermonoid. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
276:No thinking being lives who, at some luminous point of his life of thought, has not felt himself lost amid the surges of futile efforts at understanding, or believing, that anything exists greater than his own soul. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
277:Most writers - poets in especial - prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy - an ecstatic intuition - and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
278:If you have never been at sea in a heavy gale, you can form no idea of the confusion of mind occasioned by wind and spry together. They blind, deafen, and strangle you, and take away all power of action or reflection. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
279:Finally on Sunday morning, October 7, 1849, "He became quiet and seemed to rest for a short time. Then, gently, moving his head," he said, "Lord help my poor soul." As he had lived so he died-in great misery and tragedy. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
280:The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body; and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my frame. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
281:You are not wrong who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
282:I could have clasped the red walls to my bosom as a garment of eternal peace. "Death," I said, "any death but that of the pit!" Fool! might I have not known that into the pit it was the object of the burning iron to urge me? ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
283:Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heartone of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
284:If there was ever a dissenter from the national optimismit was surely Edgar Allan Poe&
285:In beauty of face no maiden ever equaled her. It was the radiance of an opium-dream - an airy and spirit-lifting vision more wildly divine than the fantasies which hovered about the slumbering souls of the daughters of Delos. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
286:Truth is not always in a well. In fact, as regards the more important knowledge, I do believe that she is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where she is found. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
287:You need not attempt to shake off or to banter off Romance. It is an evil you will never get rid of to the end of your days. It is a part of yourself ... of your soul. Age will only mellow it a little, and give it a holier tone. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
288:I fashion the expression of my face, as accurately as possible, in accordance with the expression of his, and then wait to see what thoughts or sentiments arise in my mind or heart, as if to match or correspond with the expression. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
289:A fearful instance of the ill consequences attending upon irascibility - alive, with the qualifications of the dead - dead, with the propensities of the living - an anomaly on the face of the earth - being very calm, yet breathless. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
290:With me poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be held in reverence: they must not they cannot at will be excited, with an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of mankind. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
291:But in the expression of the countenance, which was beaming all over with smiles, there still lurked (incomprehensible anomalyl) that fitful strain of melancholy which will ever be found inseparable from the perfection of the beautiful. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
292:I heed not that my earthly lot Hath - little of Earth in it - That years of love have been forgot In the hatred of a minute: - I mourn not that the desolate Are happier, sweet, than I, But that you sorrow for my fate Who am a passer by. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
293:The Bostonians are really, as a race, far inferior in point of anything beyond mere intellect to any other set upon the continent of North America. They are decidedly the most servile imitators of the English it is possible to conceive. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
294:The usual derivation of the word Metaphysics is not to be sustainedthe science is supposed to take its name from its superiority to physics. The truth is, that Aristotle's treatise on Morals is next in succession to his Book of Physics. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
295:If Mr. Vincent Price were to be co-starred with Miss Bette Davis in a story by Mr. Edgar Allan Poe directed by Mr. Roger Corman, it could not fully express the pent-up violence and depravity of a single day in the life of the average family. ~ quentin-crisp, @wisdomtrove
296:I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal necessity, transient. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
297:In spite of the air of fablethe public were still not at all disposed to receive it as fable. I thence concluded that the facts of my narrative would prove of such a nature as to carry with them sufficient evidence of their own authenticity. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
298:The realities of the world affected me as visions, and as visions only, while the wild ideas of the land of dreams became, in turn,‚not the material of my every-day existence&
299:Yet we met; and fate bound us together at the alter,and I never spoke of passion nor thought of love. She, however shunned society, and, attaching herself to me alone rendered me happy. It is a happiness to wonder; it is a happiness to dream. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
300:In other words, I believed, and still do believe, that truth, is frequently of its own essence, superficial, and that, in many cases, the depth lies more in the abysses where we seek her, than in the actual situations wherein she may be found. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
301:... And, all at once, the moon arouse through the thin ghastly mist, And was crimson in color... And they lynx which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom. And lay down at the feet of the demon. And looked at him steadily in the face. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
302:That single thought is enough. The impulse increases to a wish, the wish to a desire, the desire to an uncontrollable longing, and the longing (to the deep regret and mortification of the speaker, and in defiance of all consequences,) is indulged. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
303:As for Republicanism, no analogy could be found for it upon the face of the earth‚unless we except the case of the "prairie dogs," an exception which seems to demonstrate, if anything, that democracy is a very admirable form of government‚for dogs. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
304:Yes I now feel that it was then on that evening of sweet dreams- that the very first dawn of human love burst upon the icy night of my spirit. Since that period I have never seen nor heard your name without a shiver half of delight half of anxiety. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
305:But our love was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we Of many far wiser than we And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
306:To see distinctly the machinery&
307:Few persons can be made to believe that it is not quite an easy thing to invent a method of secret writing that shall baffle investigation. Yet it may be roundly asserted that human ingenuity cannot concoct a cipher which human ingenuity cannot resolve. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
308:And travellers, now, within that valley, Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms, that move fantastically To a discordant melody, While, like a ghastly rapid river, Through the pale door A hideous throng rush out forever And laugh ‚ but smile no more. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
309:There might be a class of beings, human once, but now to humanity invisible, for whose scrutiny, and for whose refined appreciation of the beautiful, more especially than for our own, had been set in order by God the great landscape-garden of the whole earth. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
310:Out- out are the lights- out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, While the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, "Man," And its hero the Conqueror Worm. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
311:By a route obscure and lonely Haunted by ill angels only, Where an eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns upright, I have reached these lands but newly From an ultimate dim Thule - From a wild, weird clime that lieth, sublime, Out of SPACE, out of TIME. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
312:I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as the Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. Its sole arbiter is taste. With the intellect or with the conscience, it has only collateral relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with duty or with truth. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
313:If I venture to displace ... the microscopical speck of dust... on the point of my finger,... I have done a deed which shakes the Moon in her path, which causes the Sun to be no longer the Sun, and which alters forever the destiny of multitudinous myriads of stars. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
314:In death - no! even in the grave all is not lost. Else there is no immortality for man. Arousing from the most profound slumbers, we break the gossamer web of some dream. Yet in a second afterward, (so frail may that web have been) we remember not that we have dreamed. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
315:The want of an international Copy-Right Law, by rendering it nearly impossible to obtain anything from the booksellers in the wayof remuneration for literary labor, has had the effect of forcing many of our very best writers into the service of the Magazines and Reviews. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
316:Read this and thought of you: Through joy and through sorrow, I wrote. Through hunger and through thirst, I wrote. Through good report and through ill report, I wrote. Through sunshine and through moonshine, I wrote. What I wrote it is unnecessary to say. ~ Edgar Allen Poe ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
317:If we examine a work of ordinary art, by means of a powerful microscope, all traces of resemblance to nature will disappear - but the closest scrutiny of the photogenic drawing discloses only a more absolute truth, a more perfect identity of aspect with the thing represented. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
318:Coincidences, in general, are great stumbling blocks in the way of that class of thinkers who have been educated to know nothing of the theory of probabilities- that theory to which the most glorious objects of human research are indebted for the most glorious of illustration. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
319:I never can hear a crowd of people singing and gesticulating, all together, at an Italian opera, without fancying myself at Athens, listening to that particular tragedy, by Sophocles, in which he introduces a full chorus of turkeys, who set about bewailing the death of Meleager. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
320:Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it &
321:It is clear that a poem may be improperly brief. Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A very short poem, while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a profound or enduring, effect. There must be the steady pressing down of the stamp upon the wax. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
322:Philosophers have often held dispute As to the seat of thought in man and brute For that the power of thought attends the latter My friend, thy beau, hath made a settled matter, And spite of dogmas current in all ages, One settled fact is better than ten sages. (O,Tempora! O,Mores!) ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
323:There are few persons, even among the calmest thinkers, who have not occasionally been startled into a vague yet thrilling half credence in the supernatural, by coincidences of so seemingly marvellous a character that, as mere coincidences, the intellect has been unable to receive them. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
324:Ceux qui revent eveilles ont conscience de 1000 choses qui echapent a ceux qui ne revent qu'endormis. The one who has day dream are aware of 1000 things that the one who dreams only when he sleeps will never understand. (it sounds better in french, I do what I can with my translation... ) ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
325:Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten golden notes, And all in tune What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens while she gloats On the moon! ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
326:Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence– whether much that is glorious– whether all that is profound– does not spring from disease of thought– from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
327:The mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate them only in their effects. We know of them, among other things, that they are always to their possessor, when inordinately possessed, a source of the liveliest enjoyment. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
328:There is then no analogy whatever between the operations of the Chess-Player, and those of the calculating machine of Mr. Babbage , and if we choose to call the former a pure machine we must be prepared to admit that it is, beyond all comparison, the most wonderful of the inventions of mankind. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
329:The word "Verse" is used here as the term most convenient for expressing, and without pedantry, all that is involved in the consideration of rhythm, rhyme, meter, and versification... the subject is exceedingly simple; one tenth of it, possibly may be called ethical; nine tenths, however, appertains to the mathematics. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
330:There are two bodies - the rudimental and the complete; corresponding with the two conditions of the worm and the butterfly. What we call "death," is but the painful metamorphosis. Our present incarnation is progressive, preparatory, temporary. Our future is perfected, ultimate, immortal. The ultimate life is the full design. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
331:For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
332:I might refer at once, if necessary, to a hundred well authenticated instances. One of very remarkable character, and of which the circumstances may be fresh in the memory of some of my readers, occurred, not very long ago, in the neighboring city of Baltimore, where it occasioned a painful, intense, and widely extended excitement. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
333:Tell a scoundrel, three or four times a day, that he is the pink of probity, and you make him at least the perfection of "respectability" in good earnest. On the other hand, accuse an honorable man, too petinaciously, of being a villain, and you fill him with a perverse ambition to show you that you are not altogether in the wrong. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
334:[E]very plot, worth the name, must be elaborated to its dénouement before anything be attempted with the pen. It is only with the dénouement constantly in view that we can plot its indispensable air of consequence, or causation, by making the incidents, and especially the tone at all points tend to the development of the intention. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
335:I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
336:... for the question is of will, and not, as the insanity of logic has assumed of power. It is not that the Deity cannot modify his laws, but that we insult him in imagining a possible necessity for modification.  In their origin these laws were fashioned to embrace all contingencies which could lie in the future.  With God all is Now. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
337:In the one instance, the dreamerloses sight of this object in a wilderness of deductions and suggestionsuntilhe finds the incitamentum, or first cause of his musings,... forgotten. In my case, the primary object was invariably frivolous, although assuming, through the medium of my distempered vision, a refracted and unreal importance. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
338:Thy soul shall find itself alone ‘Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone‚ Not one, of all the crowd, to pry Into thine hour of secrecy. Be silent in that solitude, Which is not loneliness‚for then The spirits of the dead who stood In life before thee are again In death around thee‚and their will Shall overshadow thee: be still. [... ] ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
339:And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me ‚ filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door ‚ Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; ‚ This it is, and nothing more. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
340:The enormous multiplication of books in every branch of knowledge is one of the greatest evils of this age, since it presents one of the most serious obstacles to the acquisition of correct information by throwing in the reader's way piles of lumber in which he must painfully grope for the scraps of useful matter, peradventure interspersed. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
341:Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore&
342:Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore- Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
343:And the Raven, never flitting, Still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas Just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming Of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming Throws his shadow on the floor, And my soul from out that shadow, That lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted - nevermore. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
344:Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in waking, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
345:There was a discordant hum of human voices! There was a loud blast as of many trumpets! There was a harsh grating as of a thousand thunders! The fiery walls rushed back! An outstretched arm caught my own as I fell, fainting, into the abyss. It was that of General Lasalle. The French army had entered Toledo. The Inquisition was in the hands of its enemies. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
346:And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? -now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
347:Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" ‚ Merely this, and nothing more ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
348:After reading all that has been written, and after thinking all that can be thought, on the topics of God and the soul, the man who has a right to say that he thinks at all, will find himself face to face with the conclusion that, on these topics, the most profound thought is that which can be the least easily distinguished from the most superficial sentiment. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
349:There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives, amused themselves in retracing the steps by which particular conclusions of their own minds have been attained. The occupation is often full of interest and he who attempts it for the first time is astonished by the apparently illimitable distance and incoherence between the starting-point and the goal. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
350:Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee&
351:If Edgar Allan Poe were alive today, his agent would be constantly slapping him upside the head with tightly rolled copies of his brilliant short stories and novelettes, yelling, &
352:It is more than probable that I am not understood; but I fear, indeed, that it is in no manner possible to convey to the mind of the merely general reader, an adequate idea of that nervous intensity of interest with which, in my case, the powers of meditation (not to speak technically) busied and buried themselves, in the contemplation of even the most ordinary objects of the universe. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
353:By the grey woods, by the swamp, where the toad and newt encamp, by the dismal tarns and pools, where dwell the Gouls. By each spot the most unholy, by each nook most melancholy, there the traveller meets, aghast, sheeted memories of the Past.   Shrouded forms that  start and sigh, as they pass the wanderer by. White-robed forms of friends long given; In agony, to the Earth - and Heaven. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
354:By late accounts from Rotterdam, that city seems to be in a high state of philosophical excitement. Indeed, phenomena have there occurred of a nature so completely unexpected&
355:And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revelers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
356:I am excessively slothful, and wonderfully industrious-by fits. There are epochs when any kind of mental exercise is torture, and when nothing yields me pleasure but the solitary communion with the &
357:During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was - but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
358:If any ambitious man have a fancy to revolutionize, at one effort, the universal world of human thought, human opinion, and human sentiment, the opportunity is his own - the road to immortal renown lies straight, open, and unencumbered before him. All that he has to do is to write and publish a very little book. Its title should be simple - a few plain words - My Heart Laid Bare. But - this little book must be true to its title. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
359:Hear the sledges with the bells, Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night, While the stars that oversprinkle All the Heavens seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight: Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells&
360:The history of all Magazines shows plainly that those which have attained celebrity were indebted for it to articles similar in natureto Berenice&
361:We now demand the light artillery of the intellect; we need the curt, the condensed, the pointed, the readily diffused - in place of the verbose, the detailed, the voluminous, the inaccessible. On the other hand, the lightness of the artillery should not degenerate into pop-gunnery - by which term we may designate the character of the greater portion of the newspaper press - their sole legitimate object being the discussion of ephemeral matters in an ephemeral manner. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
362:A change fell upon all things. Strange brilliant flowers, star-shaped, burst out upon the trees where no flowers had been before. The tints of the green carpet deepened; and when, one by one, the white daisies shrank away, there sprang up, in place of them, ten by ten of the ruby-red asphodel. And life arose in our paths; for the tall flamingo hitherto unseen, with all gay glowing birds, flaunted his scarlet plumage before us. The golden and silver fish haunted the river. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
363:To Helen Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome. Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand, Ah! Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land! ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
364:I was forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory conclusion, that while, beyond doubt, there are combinations of very simple natural objects which have the power of thus affecting us, still the analysis of this power lies among considerations beyond our depth. It was possible, I reflected, that a mere different arrangement of the particulars of the scene, of the details of the picture, would be sufficient to modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for sorrowful impression. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
365:There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, and looking them piteously in the eyes - die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed. Now and then, alas, the conscience of man takes up a burden so heavy in horror that it can be thrown down only into the grave. And thus the essence of all crime is undivulged. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
366:There is not a more disgusting spectacle under the sun than our subserviency to British criticism. It is disgusting, first, because it is truckling, servile, pusillanimous&
367:Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart - one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is Law, merely because we understand it to be such? ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
368:O, Times! O, Manners! It is my opinion That you are changing sadly your dominion I mean the reign of manners hath long ceased, For men have none at all, or bad at least; And as for times, altho' 'tis said by many The "good old times" were far the worst of any, Of which sound Doctrine I believe each tittle Yet still I think these worst a little. I've been a thinking -isn't that the phrase?- I like your Yankee words and Yankee ways - I've been a thinking, whether it were best To Take things seriously, Or all in jest ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
369:Were the succession of stars endless, then the background of the sky would present us an uniform luminosity, like that displayed by the Galaxy-since there could be absolutely no point, in all that background, at which would not exist a star. The only mode, therefore, in which, under such a state of affairs, we could comprehend the voids which our telescopes find in innumerable directions, would be by supposing the distance of the invisible background so immense that no ray from it has yet been able to reach us at all. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
370:I am SHADOW, and my dwelling is near to the Catacombs of Ptolemais, and hard by those dim plains of Helusion which border upon the foul Charonian canal." And then did we, the seven, start from our seats in horror, and stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast, for the tones in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one being, but of a multitude of beings, and, varying in their cadences from syllable to syllable fell duskly upon our ears in the well-remembered and familiar accents of many thousand departed friends. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
371:One morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree; ‚ hung it with the tears streaming from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse at my heart; ‚ hung it because I knew that it had loved me, and because I felt it had given me no reason of offence; ‚ hung it because I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin ‚ a deadly sin that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it ‚ if such a thing were possible ‚ even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
372:I must perish in this deplorable folly. Thus, thus, and not otherwise, shall I be lost. I dread the events of the future, not in themselves, but in their results. I shudder at the thought of any, even the most trivial, incident, which may operate upon this intolerable agitation of soul. I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect-in terror. In this unnerved-in this pitiable condition-I feel that the period will sooner or later arrive when I must abandon life and reason together, in some struggle with the grim phantasm, FEAR. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
373:And because our reason violently deters us from the brink, therefore, do we the more impetuously approach it. There is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of him, who shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a plunge. To indulge for a moment, in any attempt at thought, is to be inevitably lost; for reflection but urges us to forbear, and therefore it is, I say, that we cannot. If there be no friendly arm to check us, or if we fail in a sudden effort to prostrate ourselves backward from the abyss, we plunge, and are destroyed. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
374:Come little children I'll take thee away, into a land of Enchantment Come little children the time's come to play here in my garden of Shadows Follow sweet children I'll show thee the way through all the pain and the Sorrows Weep not poor childlen for life is this way murdering beauty and Passions Hush now dear children it must be this way to weary of life and Deceptions Rest now my children for soon we'll away into the calm and the Quiet Come little children I'll take thee away, into a land of Enchantment Come little children the time's come to play here in my garden of Shadows ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:«falstaffiano». ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
2:Never— nevermore ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
3:In pace requiescat! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
4:MISERY is manifold. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
5:The reproduction of ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
6:I love me a good sheep. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
7:Lord help my poor soul. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
8:Lord help my poor soul. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
9:Nemo impune me lacessit!! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
10:Helen, thy beauty is to me ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
11:Quoth the raven nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
12:Düş görmek bir mutluluktur. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
13:El ángel de lo estrambótico ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
14:Here, at last, he is happy. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
15:I rapped, as was my custom, ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
16:Once upon a midnight dreary ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
17:Leave my loneliness unbroken ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
18:Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
19:Quoth the raven, “Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
20:Be nothing which thou art not ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
21:I am dying, yet shall I live. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
22:The wine sparkled in his eyes ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
23:I fell in love with melancholy ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
24:I had done a deed—what was it? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
25:And all I loved, I loved alone. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
26:And the raven quote, nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
27:For the love of God, Montresor! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
28:Son cœur est un luth suspendu ; ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
29:And I fell violently on my face. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
30:by the five corners of my beard! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
31:It was many and many a year ago, ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
32:The past is a pebble in my shoe. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
33:Trust to the fickle star within. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
34:Darkness there, and nothing more. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
35:For all we live to know is known. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
36:I pacified Psyche and kissed her, ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
37:I smiled,—for what had I to fear? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
38:Men usually grow base by degrees. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
39:Blood was its Avatar and its seal. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
40:I saw no heaven — but in her eyes. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
41:Once upon a midnight dreary, while ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
42:She came and departed as a shadow. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
43:Art is to look at not to criticize. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
44:Edgar Allan Poe's Complete Poetical Works ~ Anonymous,
45:Even in the grave, all is not lost. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
46:Yes," I said, "for the love of God! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
47:Even in the grave, all is not lost. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
48:Grammar is the analysis of language. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
49:que malgastara mi niñez entre libros ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
50:And all I loved,
I loved alone.
   ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
51:And much of Madness, and more of Sin, ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
52:Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
53:Era el esplendor de un sueño de opio, ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
54:For passion must, with youth, expire. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
55:...madness is no comfortable feeling. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
56:...no act is without infinite result. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
57:to do wrong for the wrong’s sake only ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
58:Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
59:I'm a writer. Therefore, I am not sane. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
60:jingling and the tinkling of the bells. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
61:…mutluluk hayatta iki kez elde edilmez… ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
62:Sound loves to revel in a summer night. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
63:False hope is nicer than no hope at all. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
64:I am a writer. Therefore, I am not sane. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
65:I am a writer. Therefore. I am not sane. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
66:Invisible things are the only realities. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
67:it has the force of a frame to a picture ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
68:Let me glimpse inside your velvet bones. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
69:Stupidity is a talent for misconception. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
70:The best things in life make you sweaty. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
71:thence conducted me, in silence, through ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
72:There is an eloquence in true enthusiasm ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
73:Convinced myself, I seek not to convince. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
74:Ha! ha! ha! -- ha! ha! ha! -- ho! ho! ho! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
75:I am a writer. Therefore. I am not sane. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
76:To elevate the soul, poetry is necessary. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
77:Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
78:The believer is happy. The doubter is wise. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
79:There is no beauty without some strangeness ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
80:The true genius shudders at incompleteness. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
81:This maiden she lived with no other thought ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
82:Thou wouldst be loved? - then let thy heart ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
83:All works of art should begin... at the end. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
84:I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
85:I would like to write as mysterious as a cat ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
86:There is no beauty without some strangeness. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
87:there is no beauty without some strangeness. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
88:We loved with a love that was more than love ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
89:He pecado, c'est vrai, pero, querido señor... ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
90:Luchesi cannot tell amontillado from a sherry ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
91:We loved with a love that was more than love. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
92:A wise man hears one word and understands two. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
93:Dreams are the eraser dust I blow off my page. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
94:I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
95:The fever called "living" Is conquer'd at last. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
96:The giant will succumbed to a power more stern. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
97:These were the days when my heart was volcanic. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
98:The sky was the color of Edgar Allan Poe's pajamas. ~ Tom Robbins,
99:But it is easier to be generous than to be just, ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
100:But we loved with a love that was more than love ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
101:it is far more easy to get up than to come down. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
102:Perversity is the human thirst for self-torture. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
103:Those who gossip with you will gossip about you. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
104:Never to suffer would never to have been blessed. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
105:To observe attentively is to remember distinctly. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
106:To observe attentively is to remember distinctly; ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
107:A mystery, and a dream, should my early life seem. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
108:Yet mad I am not...and very surely do I not dream. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
109:Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
110:For eyes we have no models in the remotely antique. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
111:For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
112:Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allan Poe. ~ John Lennon,
113:Reaching out to her is like drinking from a memory. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
114:Yet, mad am I not — and very surely do I not dream. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
115:And if I died, at least I died
For thee! for thee ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
116:For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
117:I intend to put up with nothing that I can put down. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
118:O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
119:But the memory of past sorrow--is it not present joy? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
120:Deep in earth my love is lying And I must weep alone. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
121:Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
122:Who cares how time advances? I am drinking ale today. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
123:With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
124:All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
125:The memory of a past happiness is the anguish of today ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
126:Without Ligeia I was but as a child groping benighted. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
127:Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
128:All that we see and seem is but a dream within a dream. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
129:But tomorrow I die, and today I would unburden my soul. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
130:It is a happiness to wonder;—it is a happiness to dream ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
131:A gentleman with a pug nose is a contradiction in terms. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
132:Deep in earth my love is lying
And I must weep alone. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
133:I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
134:Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
135:No hay belleza exquisita sin rareza en las proporciones. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
136:No woman could have inflicted the blows with any weapon. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
137:Rána bičem způsobí modřinu, ale rána jazykem drtí kosti. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
138:Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
139:Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door  ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
140:Where was your all-loving god when he was really needed? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
141:Y, no obstante, calcular no es intrínsecamente analizar. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
142:All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
143:Believe nothing you hear, and only one half that you see. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
144:If you run out of ideas follow the road; you'll get there ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
145:Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
146:Me volví loco, con largos intervalos de horrible cordura. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
147:Mysteries force a man to think, and so injure his health. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
148:No crea nada de lo que oye, y sólo la mitad de lo que ve. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
149:thy God hath lent thee— by these angels he hath sent thee ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
150:A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
151:Believe nothing you hear, and only one half that you see. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
152:Hasta nuestro último empeño  es sólo un sueño en un sueno. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
153:It would be mockery to call such dreariness heaven at all. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
154:«Juramos fidelidad a nuestros relojes y a nuestras coles.» ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
155:Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
156:Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore... ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
157:qui n'a plus qu'un moment a vivre
N'a plus a dissimuler ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
158:The customs of the world are so many conventional follies. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
159:Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
160:Democracy is a very admirable form of government - for dogs ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
161:enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
162:I have no words alas! to tell the loveliness of loving well ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
163:«Injuriae per applicationem, per constructionem et per se». ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
164:It is a happiness to wonder; -- it is a happiness to dream. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
165:It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea... ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
166:Never to suffer would have been never to have been blessed. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
167:Believe only half of what you see and nothing that you hear. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
168:By a route obscure and lonely
Haunted by ill angels only. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
169:Democracy is a very admirable form of government – for dogs. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
170:Ouve, meu filho, disse o demónio pondo-me a mão na cabeça... ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
171:The plots of God are perfect. The Universe is a plot of God. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
172:...the unseen but palpable presence of the Conqueror Worm... ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
173:But my disease grew upon me—for what disease is like Alcohol! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
174:but the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
175:Endeavor, Bon-Bon, to use them well; — my vision is the soul. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
176:Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
177:On the morrow he will leave me as my hopes have flown before. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
178:The people have nothing to do with the laws but to obey them. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
179:The rudiment of verse may, possibly, be found in the spondee. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
180:And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
181:Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
182:From a proud tower in the town, Death looks gigantically down. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
183:I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen the damnable atrocity. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
184:I remained too much inside my head and ended up losing my mind ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
185:Me gustaría que mi escritura fuera tan misteriosa como un gato ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
186:My heart beat calmly as that of one who slumbers in innocence. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
187:The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
188:You call it hope-that fire of fire! It is but agony of desire. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
189:And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
190:Every poem should remind the reader that they are going to die. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
191:-ev'n with us the breath Of Science dims the mirror of our joy. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
192:Here I opened wide the door;— Darkness there, and nothing more. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
193:I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen the damnable atrocity. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
194:I have no words–alas!–to tell
The loveliness of loving well! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
195:I remained too much inside my head and ended up losing my mind. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
196:A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
197:But Psyche uplifting her finger said: Sadly this star I mistrust ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
198:I briefly considered doing Edgar Allan Poe and just swearing a lot. ~ Andy Richter,
199:Melancholy is ... the most legitimate of all the poetical tones. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
200:Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
201:Soñando sueños que ningún mortal se haya atrevido jamás a soñar. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
202:The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls... ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
203:A dirge for her the doubly dead

in that she died so young. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
204:And rays of truth you cannot see
Are flashing thro' Eternity-- ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
205:Dios me dio una chispa de genialidad, pero la apagó en la miseria ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
206:Donde hay mucha ostentación –dice–, generalmente nada hay detrás. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
207:In efforts to soar above our nature, we invariably fall below it. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
208:Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
209:The eye, like a shattered mirror, multiplies the images of sorrow ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
210:There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
211:To die laughing must be the most glorious of all glorious deaths! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
212:A lie travels round the world while truth is putting her boots on. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
213:I am one of the many uncounted victims of the Imp of the Perverse. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
214:The eye, like a shattered mirror, multiplies the images of sorrow. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
215:The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
216:what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses?— ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
217:At midnight, in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
218:I have no words — alas! — to tell
The loveliness of loving well! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
219:Me quedé demasiado tiempo dentro de mi cabeza y terminé perdiéndola ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
220:You call it hope — that fire of fire!
It is but agony of desire. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
221:All suffering originates from craving, from attachment, from desire. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
222:And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting... ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
223:...for her whom in life thou dids't abhor, in death thou shalt adore ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
224:Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil! - prophet still, it bird or devil! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
225:Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
226:A feeling, for which I have no name, has taken possession of my soul. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
227:All we see or seem is but a dream within a dream...," Edgar Allan Poe ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
228:have been sufficient to establish its real character. Indeed, however ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
229:His heart is a suspended lute; As soon as you touch it, it resonates. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
230:It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year... ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
231:And so being young and dipped in folly I fell in love with melancholy. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
232:And so, being young and dipt in folly, I fell in love with melancholy. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
233:I have great faith in fools - self-confidence my friends will call it. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
234:I have great faith in fools,— self-confidence my friends will call it. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
235:In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
236:LO! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
237:Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! — ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
238:That the play is the tragedy, “Man,” And its hero, the Conqueror Worm. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
239:When I was young and filled with folly, I fell in love with melancholy ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
240:(...) wspomnienie minionego szczęścia stanowi żałość dnia dzisiejszego ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
241:But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
242:erstaunlich, dass der Mensch nur hinter einer Maske ganz er selbst ist. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
243:The most expuisite beauty has strangeness in its proportions..." Ligeia ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
244:Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
245:December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
246:If a poem hasn't ripped apart your soul; you haven't experienced poetry. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
247:No man who ever lived knows any more about the hereafter than you and I. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
248:And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
249:Here i opened wide
the door;
Darkness there,
and nothing more. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
250:I could not love except where Death Was mingling his with Beauty’s breath ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
251:I do believe God gave me a spark of genius, but he quenched it in misery. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
252:I dread the events of the future, not in themselves but in their results. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
253:Scorching my seared heart with a pain, not hell shall make me fear again. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
254:Tal vez sea la propia simplicidad del asunto lo que nos conduce al error. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
255:That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
256:That which you mistake for madness is but an overacuteness of the senses. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
257:There is no exquisite beauty… without some strangeness in the proportion. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
258:Tudo o que vemos ou parecemos / não passa de um sonho dentro de um sonho. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
259:You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was.  ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
260:A million candles have burned themselves out. Still I read on. (Montresor) ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
261:I do believe God gave me a spark of genius, but he quenched it in misery. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
262:I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
263:Reality is the #1 cause of insanity among those who are in contact with it ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
264:Ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
265:He did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
266:Indeed, there is an eloquence in true enthusiasm that is not to be doubted. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
267:Man is an animal that diddles, and there is no animal that diddles but man. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
268:The goodness of your true pun is in the direct ratio of its intolerability. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
269:Thine image and--a name--a name!
Two separate--yet most intimate things. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
270:A la muerte se le toma de frente con valor y después se le invita a una copa ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
271:And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
272:But we loved with a love  that was more than love—”  — Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe ~ M Malone,
273:If you are ever drowned or hung, be sure and make a note of your sensations. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
274:To speak algebraically, Mr. M. is execrable, but Mr. G. is (x + 1)- ecrable. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
275:A poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
276:He who pleases is of more importance to his fellow man than he who instructs. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
277:Son cœur est un luth suspendu; Sitôt qu’on le touche il résonne. —De Béranger ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
278:Una injuria queda sin reparar, cuando su justo castigo perjudica al vengador. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
279:Because it was my crime to have no one on Earth who cared for me, or loved me. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
280:Chi sogna di giorno conosce molte cose che sfuggono a chi sogna solo di notte. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
281:Happiness is not to be found in knowledge, but in the acquisition of knowledge ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
282:If a man deceives me once, shame on him; if he deceives me twice, shame on me. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
283:I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth.I heard many things in hell. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
284:A short story must have a single mood and every sentence must build towards it. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
285:Happiness is not to be found in knowledge, but in the acquisition of knowledge. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
286:Lenore — For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Nameless ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
287:All around were horror, and thick gloom, and a black sweltering desert of ebony. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
288:And so being young
and dipped in folly,
I fell in love
with melancholy. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
289:A short story must have a single mood and every sentence must build towards it. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
290:How many good books suffer neglect through the inefficiency of their beginnings! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
291:I’ve been destroying, destroying, destroying myself in longing for poetic truth… ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
292:I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
293:Some human memories and tearful lore, Render him terrorless: his name's "No More. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
294:...the agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long and final scream of despair. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
295:e minha alma dessa sombra que no chão há mais e mais, libertar-se-á... Nunca mais. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
296:I have graven it within the hills, and my vengeance upon the dust within the rock. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
297:The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
298:En el interior existía todo esto, además de la seguridad. Afuera, la «Muerte Roja». ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
299:human ingenuity could not construct a cipher which human ingenuity could not solve. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
300:I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect - in terror. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
301:I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of beauty. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
302:From childhood's hour I have not been as others were; I have not seen as others saw. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
303:Nenormālas jau savā būtībā- manas jūtas nekad nenāca no sirds, bet vienmēr no prāta. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
304:There is no exquisite beauty without some strangeness in the proportion.” Edgar Allan Poe ~ A G Howard,
305:With my aversion to this cat, however, its partiality for myself seemed to increase. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
306:Lo he grabado dentro de las colinas, y mi venganza, sobre el polvo dentro de la roca. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
307:Para sermos felizes até certo ponto é preciso que tenhamos sofrido até o mesmo ponto. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
308:To-day I wear these chains, and am HERE. To-morrow I shall be fetterless!--BUT WHERE? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
309:Cei învăţaţi să citească în stele ştiau totuşi că faţa cerurilor prevestea nenorocire. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
310:Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the Raven, ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
311:The plots of God are perfect. The Universe is a Plot of God. --Edgar Allan Poe, Eureka ~ Chet Williamson,
312:Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best have gone to their eternal rest. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
313:Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
314:Hayal kuranlar, sadece geceleri düş görenlerin gözden kaçırdığı pek çok şeyi fark eder. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
315:In for ever knowing, we are for ever blessed; but to know all were the curse of a fiend ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
316:I was warped early by Ray Bradbury and Edgar Allan Poe. I was very fond of Franz Kafka. ~ Margaret Atwood,
317:La ciencia no nos a enseñado aun si la locura es o no lo mas sublime de la inteligencia ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
318:Man's real life is happy, chiefly because he is ever expecting that it soon will be so. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
319:The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
320:The generous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to admire. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
321:The world is a great ocean, upon which we encounter more tempestuous storms than calms. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
322:A judge at common law may be an ordinary man; a good judge of a carpet must be a genius. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
323:And spite of all dogmas, current in all ages, One settled fact is better than ten sages. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
324:Durante la hora de lectura, el alma del lector está sometida a la voluntad del escritor. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
325:I do like a good mystery. I'm reading Edgar Allan Poe now. I also like autobiographies. ~ James Van Praagh,
326:Imperceptibly the love of these discords grew upon me as my love of music grew stronger. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
327:Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
328:So resolute is the world to despise anything which carries with it an air of simplicity. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
329:The death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
330:Existem cordas, nos corações dos mais indiferentes, que não podem ser tocadas sem emoção. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
331:For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Nameless here for evermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
332:From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
333:I have before suggested that a genuine blackguard is never without a pocket-handkerchief. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
334:It all depends on the robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber. - Daupin ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
335:la ciencia no nos ha enseñado aún si la locura es o no lo más sublime de la inteligencia. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
336:Y, entonces, abrí la puerta de par en par, y ¿qué es lo que vi? ¡Las tinieblas y nada más! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
337:From childhood's hour I have not been As others were; [...] And all I loved, I loved alone. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
338:On this home by Horror haunted— tell me truly, I implore— Is there— is there balm in Gilead ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
339:Such, I have long known, is the paradoxical law of all sentiments having terror as a basis. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
340:the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
341:True! - nervous - very, very nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
342:Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin; Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
343:A man's grammar, like Caesar's wife, must not only be pure, but above suspicion of impurity. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
344:Boston: Their hotels are bad. Their pumpkin pies are delicious. Their poetry is not so good. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
345:I didn’t even know a heart could beat so loudly, and it reminds me of an Edgar Allan Poe story ~ Lauren Oliver,
346:If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
347:It was night, and the rain fell; and falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
348:I've been influenced by poets as diverse as Dylan Thomas, Lewis Carroll, and Edgar Allan Poe. ~ Jack Prelutsky,
349:No es que me atemorizara mirar cosas horribles, sino que me aterraba la idea de no ver nada. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
350:Tell me truly, I implore-- Is there-- is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
351:There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
352:You will observe that the stories told are all about money-seekers, not about money-finders. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
353:And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
354:And haven't I told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
355:Aquellos que sueñan de día comprenden muchas cosas que escapan a los que sueñan solo de noche ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
356:En los corazones de los hombres más temerarios hay cuerdas que no se dejan tocar sin emoción. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
357:Literature is the most noble of professions. In fact, it is about the only one fit for a man. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
358:¿No os he dicho ya que lo que tomabais por locura no es sino un refinamiento de los sentidos? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
359:salutaire dont l'action suppléait à l'énergie, commençait maintenant à refluer et à reprendre ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
360:Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
361:The secret of a poem, no less than a jest's prosperity, lies in the ear of him that hears it. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
362:To vilify a great man is the readiest way in which a little man can himself attain greatness. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
363:All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
364:A man's grammar, like Caesar's wife, should not only be pure, but above suspicion of impurity. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
365:They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
366:Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
367:Yes, Heaven is thine; but this Is a world of sweets and sours; Our flowers are merely—flowers. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
368:And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted -- Nevermore! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
369:...but in the next moment I cursed myself for being so great a fool as to dream of hope at all. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
370:If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.
   ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
371:Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,- Perched, and sat, and nothing more. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
372:That man is not truly brave who is afraid either to seem or to be, when it suits him, a coward. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
373:The rain came down upon my head - Unshelter'd. And the wind rendered me mad and deaf and blind. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
374:Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
375:When a madman appears thoroughly sane, indeed, it is high time to put him in a straight jacket. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
376:And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense?
   ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
377:And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
378:It was all Mrs. Waddington could do to refrain from hurling a bust of Edgar Allan Poe at her head. ~ P G Wodehouse,
379:Other friends have flown before-- On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
380:Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
381:Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
382:We had always dwelled together, beneath a tropical sun, in the Valley of the Many Colored Grass. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
383:Y la tiniebla, y la ruina, y la «Muerte Roja» tuvieron sobre todo aquello ilimitado dominio.   F ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
384:And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but overacuteness of the senses? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
385:a nose of a delicate Hebrew model, but with a breadth of nostril unusual in similar formations; a ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
386:If I'm too old to be Emo, how do you account for the very Emo and very old Edgar Allan Poe? Checkmate! ~ John Green,
387:Long suffering had nearly annihilated all my ordinary powers of mind. I was an imbecile—an idiot. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
388:The idea of God, infinity, or spirit stands for the possible attempt at an impossible conception. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
389:And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over acuteness of the senses? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
390:And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
391:And they hated her for her pride —But she grew in feeble health, And they love her —that she died. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
392:Cuando un loco parece completamente cuerdo, es el momento indicado de ponerle la camisa de fuerza. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
393:Igual que en la ética el mal es consecuencia del bien, en realidad de la alegría nace la tristeza. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
394:Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the raven, “Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
395:The idea of God, infinity, or spirit stands for the possible attempt at an impossible conception. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
396:A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet . . . yet the fool has never read Shakespeare. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
397:The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where she is found. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
398:The greater amount of truth is impulsively uttered; thus the greater amount is spoken, not written. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
399:... your writer of intensities must have very black ink, and a very big pen, with a very blunt nib. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
400:Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
401:En la intensidad de su deseo de vivir, sólo vivir, el consuelo y la razón eran el colmo de la locura ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
402:I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
403:Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.” ― Edgar Allan Poe ~ Penny Reid,
404:Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
405:But hoax, with these sort of people, is, I believe, a term for all matters above their comprehension. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
406:It would be easier to separate salt from the seas than Edgar Allan Poe’s influence from our literature. ~ Andrew Barger,
407:Of puns it has been said that those who most dislike them are those who are least able to utter them. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
408:Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
409:We allude to the short prose narrative, requiring from a half hour to one or two hours in its perusal ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
410:Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call         “Silence”—which is the merest word of all.         All ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
411:Not altogether a fool," said G., "but then he's a poet, which I take to be only one remove from a fool. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
412:Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” And ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
413:Bazı kitapları okurken yazarın düşüncelerine dalıp gideriz, bazılarını okurken de kendi düşüncelerimize. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
414:It is an evil (...), that here a man of large purse has usually a very little soul which he keeps in it. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
415:La mayor parte de los filósofos son muy poco filosóficos con respecto a muchos aspectos de la filosofía. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
416:Legrand se hallaba en uno de sus ataques —¿Con qué otro término podría llamarse aquello?— de entusiasmo. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
417:The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of Artist ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
418:They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. -Eleonora ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
419:In his opinion the powers of the intellect held intimate connection with the capabilities of the stomach. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
420:In the deepest slumber-no! In delirium-no! In a swoon-no! In death-no! even in the grave all is not lost. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
421:It is the nature of truth in general, as of some ores in particular, to be richest when most superficial. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
422:Sin mi idea arraigada a fondo de que había allí algo enterrado, todo nuestro trabajo hubiera sido inútil. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
423:Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
424:The look on his face frightened me terribly, but at the same time I was pleased not to be alone any more. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
425:The mountainous surges suggest the idea of innumerable dumb gigantic fiends struggling in impotent agony. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
426:El hombre no se rinde a los ángeles ni por entero a la muerte, salvo por la flaqueza de su débil voluntad. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
427:You remind me of Edgar Allan Poe's Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals did exist out of stories. ~ Arthur Conan Doyle,
428:A enorme multiplicação de livros, de todos os ramos do conhecimento, é um dos maiores males de nossa época. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
429:que las más brillantes y más duraderas de las captaciones psíquicas son las que se afianzan con una mirada. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
430:we soon began to feel the effects of liberty and long speeches, and radicalism, and all that sort of thing. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
431:Even for those to whom life and death are equal jests. There are some things that are still held in respect. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
432:Decorum -- that bug-bear which deters so many from bliss until the opportunity for bliss has forever gone by. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
433:It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
434:It may be roundly asserted that human ingenuity cannot concoct a cipher which human ingenuity cannot resolve. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
435:Actually, I do have doubts, all the time. Any thinking person does. There are so many sides to every question. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
436:A poem in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having for its immediate object, pleasure, not truth. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
437:It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
438:...that fitful strain of melancholy which will ever be found inseperable from the perfection of the beautiful. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
439:We loved with a love that was more than love.”
― Edgar Allen Poe
tags: logic, love 8594 likes
Liked! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
440:Men have called me mad, but the question is not settled whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
441:To be thoroughly conversant with Man’s heart, is to take our final lesson in the iron-clasped volume of Despair ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
442:But, for myself, the Earth’s records had taught me to look for widest ruin as the price of highest civilization. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
443:I have made no money. I am as poor now as ever I was in my life - except in hope, which is by no means bankable. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
444:In 1874 I began drawing attention to the fact that unknown and unreprinted poetry by Edgar Poe was in existence. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
445:It was well said of a certain German book that ‘er lasst sich nicht lesen”—it does not permit itself to be read. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
446:Le chemin des passions me conduit — as Lord Edouard in the "Julie" says it did him — à la philosophie veritable. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
447:This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely black, and sagacious to an astonishing degree. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
448:don't pe in te urry—don't. Will you pe take de odder pottle, or ave you pe got zober yet and come to your zenzes? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
449:Edgar Allan Poe is considered the great writer of horror stories, perhaps the greatest - I will say the greatest ~ William Friedkin,
450:If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered. ~ Edgar Allan Poe, Marginalia, 1845-9.,
451:I went as a passenger, having no other inducement than a kind of nervous restlessness which haunted me as a fiend ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
452:O God! Can I not save
   One from the pitiless wave?
   Is all that we see or seem
   But a dream within a dream?
   ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
453:The actual American childhood is less Norman Rockwell and Walt Disney than Nathaniel Hawthorne and Edgar Allan Poe. ~ Susan Cheever,
454:the deductions are the sole proper ones, and that the suspicion arises inevitably from them as the single result. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
455:I intend to put up with nothing that I can put down."

[Letter to J. Beauchamp Jones, August 8, 1839] ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
456:And, when the friendly sunshine smil'd, / And she would mark the opening skies, / I saw no Heaven--but in her eyes. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
457:As a poet and as a mathematician, he would reason well; as a mere mathematician, he could not have reasoned at all. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
458:Did there not cross your mind some thought of the physical power of words? Is not every word an impulse on the air? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
459:If in many of my productions terror has been the thesis, I maintain that terror is not of Germany, but of the soul. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
460:L'uomo non cede agli angeli, né interamente alla morte, se non a causa della fiacchezza della sua minuscola volontà ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
461:Son coeur est un luth suspendu;      Sitôt qu'on le touche il rèsonne..                                De Béranger. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
462:It is with literature as with law or empire - an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in possession. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
463:Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
464:Mimes in the form of God on high mutter and mumble low and hither and tither fly, mere puppets they who come and go. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
465:The days have never been when thou couldst love me—but her whom in life thou didst abhor, in death thou shalt adore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
466:Bright beings that ponder,
With half-closing eyes,
On the stars which your wonder,
Hath drawn from the skies ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
467:Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
468:Sometimes I’m terrified of my heart; of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants. The way it stops and starts. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
469:El hombre no se rinde a los ángeles, ni por entero a la muerte, salvo únicamente por la flaqueza de su débil voluntad. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
470:I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
471:There are moments when, even to the sober eye of Reason, the world of our sad humanity must assume the aspect of Hell. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
472:And, though my faith be broken,
And, though my heart be broken,
Here is a ring, as token
That I am happy now! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
473:Every moment of the night Forever changing places And they put out the star-light With the breath from their pale faces ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
474:...If you do not take it up with you in some way, I shall be under the necessity of breaking your head with this shovel ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
475:In me didst thou exist-and, in my death, see by this image, which is thine own, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
476:Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
477:We gave the Future to the winds, and slumbered tranquilly in the Present, weaving the dull world around us into dreams. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
478:And then there stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note, the thought of what sweet rest there must be in the grave. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
479:Children are never too tender to be whipped. Like tough beefsteaks, the more you beat them, the more tender they become. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
480:Art was, for Poe, the only method by which one could penetrate the shapeless empirical world in the search for order, and ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
481:Desde aquel momento las pocas dudas que podía haber tenido sobre la demencia de mi pobre amigo se disiparon por completo. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
482:If we cannot comprehend God in his visible works, how then in his inconceivable thoughts, that call the works into being? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
483:I kneel, an altered and an humble man, Amid thy shadows, and so drink within My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
484:of Edgar Allan Poe’s 1841 classic “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” may have been history’s first behavioral profiler. ~ John Edward Douglas,
485:We gave him a hearty welcome, for there was nearly half as much of the entertaining as of the contemptible about the man. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
486:I assert, however, that much of our incredulity—as La Bruyere says of all our unhappiness—"vient de ne pouvoir être seuls. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
487:In criticism I will be bold, and as sternly, absolutely just with friend and foe. From this purpose nothing shall turn me. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
488:Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
489:This wild star—it is now three centuries since, with clasped hands, and with streaming eyes,... I spoke it ... into birth. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
490:We gave him a hearty welcome, for there was nearly half as much of the entertaining as of the contemptible about the man.. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
491:Believe me, there exists no such dilemma as that in which a gentleman is placed when he is forced to reply to a blackguard. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
492:but it is a trait in the perversity of human nature to reject the obvious and the ready, for the far-distant and equivocal. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
493:But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
494:Cuando observaba yo aquel último y supremo síntoma del trastorno mental de mi amigo, no podía apenas contener las lágrimas. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
495:Enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough." "True - true," I replied; ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
496:Had Mary Shelley or Edgar Allan Poe been born into the mid-twentieth century they would never have had to invent horror. ~ Charles Pellegrino,
497:I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, "a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
498:I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, 'a long poem,' is simply a flat contradiction in terms. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
499:In criticism, I will be bold, and as sternly, absolutely just with friend and foe. From this purpose nothing shall turn me. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
500:In no affairs of mere prejudice, pro or con, do we deduce inferences with entire certainty, even from the most simple data. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
501:It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
502:¡Ah, eternamente veo tus ojos soñadores, ardorosos, azules como los lánguidos cielos decorados con la orla dorada del ocaso! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
503:That holy dream—that holy dream, While all the world were chiding, Hath cheered me as a lovely beam A lonely spirit guiding. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
504:where breathes the man who has traversed, and successfully, all the wide areas of moral, physical, and mathematical science? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
505:É um facto que um homem engenhoso é sempre fantasista, enquanto o homem verdadeiramente imaginativo é, no fundo, um analista. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
506:The pioneers and missionaries of religion have been the real cause of more trouble and war than all other classes of mankind. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
507:You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream...
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
508:In the strange anomaly of my existence, feelings with me had never been of the heart, and my passions always were of the mind. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
509:no man can consider himself entitled to complain of Fate while in his adversity he still retains the unwavering love of woman. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
510:Other friends have flown before — On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.” Quoth the raven, “Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
511:Such weakness can scarcely be conceived, and to those who have never been similarly situated will, no doubt, appear unnatural; ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
512:The winters in the latitude of Sullivan's Island are seldom very severe, and in the fall of the year it is a rare event indeed ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
513:...and into this bizarrerie, as into all his others, I quietly fell; giving myself up to his wild whims with a perfect abandon. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
514:In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed-- But a waking dream of life and light Hath left me broken-hearted. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
515:Proprieties of place, and especially of time, are the bugbears which terrify mankind from the contemplation of the magnificent. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
516:Every moment of the night
Forever changing places
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
517:In reading some books we occupy ourselves chiefly with the thoughts of the author; in perusing others, exclusively with our own. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
518:Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
519:Over the Mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow, Ride, boldly ride," The shade replied,- "If you seek for Eldorado. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
520:we then busied our souls in dreams—reading, writing, or conversing, until warned by the clock of the advent of the true Darkness. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
521:I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. ~ Ralph Ellison,
522:I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
523:In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed-- But a waking dream of life and light Hath left me
broken-hearted. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
524:Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells, From the bells, bells, bells. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
525:The true genius shudders at incompleteness - and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
526:I call to mind flatness and dampness; and then all is madness - the madness of a memory which busies itself among forbidden things. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
527:Lovecraft was an atheist. Edgar Allan Poe was sort of a half-assed transcendentalist. And Hawthorne was only conventionally religious. ~ Stephen King,
528:Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of 18—, I there became acquainted with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin. This ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
529:If [a short story author's] very initial sentence tend not to the out bringing of this effect, then he has failed in his first step. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
530:In visions of the dark night  I have dream'd of joy departed— But a waking dream of life and light  Hath left me broken-hearted. And ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
531:La belleza de cualquier clase, en su manifestación suprema excita inevitablemente el alma sensitiva hasta hacerle derramar lágrimas. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
532:The result of law inviolate is perfection–right–negative happiness. The result of law violate is imperfection, wrong, positive pain. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
533:Villains!' I shrieked. 'Dissemble no more! I admit the deed! Tear up the planks! Here, here! It is the beating of his hideous heart! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
534:Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the planks!—here, here!—it is the beating of his hideous heart! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
535:He knew that Hop-Frog was not fond of wine; for it excited the poor cripple almost to madness; and madness is no comfortable feeling. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
536:there were no bounds conceivable to its advancement and applicability, except within the intellect of him who advanced or applied it. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
537:In the marginalia ... we talk only to ourselves; we therefore talk freshly - boldly - originally - with abandonment - without conceit. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
538:It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
539:He is, as you say, a remarkable horse, a prodigious horse, although as you very justly observe, a suspicious and untractable character. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
540:I am walking like a bewitched corpse, with the certainty of being eaten by the infinite, of being annulled by the only existing Absurd. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
541:It is evident that we are hurrying onward to some exciting knowledge—some never-to-be-imparted secret, whose attainment is destruction. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
542:La vida orgánica y la materia (complejas, sustanciales y sometidas a leyes) fueron creadas con el propósito de producir un impedimento. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
543:Marking a book is literally an experience of your differences or agreements with the author. It is the highest respect you can pay him. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
544:Si no hay junto a nosotros un brazo amigo que nos detenga, o somos incapaces de alejarnos, nos arrojamos, nos aniquilamos en el abismo. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
545:Those eyes! those large, those shining, those divine orbs! they became to me twin stars of Leda, and I to them devoutest of astrologers ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
546:Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
547:es una característica de la perversidad de la naturaleza humana el rechazar lo obvio y lo inmediato a cambio de lo equívoco y lo lejano. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
548:It may well be doubted whether human ingenuity can construct an enigma... which human ingenuity may not, by proper application, resolve. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
549:The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
550:There are moments when even to the sober eye of reason, the world of our sad humanity may assume the semblance of Hell.” ― Edgar Allan Poe ~ Misty Griffin,
551:Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action for no other reason than because he knows he should not? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
552:Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day; or the agonies which are have their origins in ecstasies which might have been. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
553:Now this is the point. You fancy me a mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
554:Allí se derrama una luz más roja a través de los cristales color de sangre, y la oscuridad de las cortinas teñidas de negro es aterradora. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
555:Other friends have flown before— On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.” Then the bird said, “Nevermore.” Startled ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
556:There lives no man who at some period has not been tormented, for example, by an earnest desire to tantalize a listener by circumlocution. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
557:Basta ya de fingir, malvados! -aullé-. ¡Confieso que lo maté! ¡Levanten esos tablones! ¡Ahí… ahí! ¡Donde está latiendo su horrible corazón! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
558:Conveniências de lugares, e especialmente de tempo, são os fantasmas que afastam a humanidade aterrorizada da contemplação do magnificente. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
559:Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
   ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
560:En la extraña anomalía de mi existencia, los sentimientos en mí nunca venían del corazón, y las pasiones siempre venían de la inteligencia. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
561:I was born on the same day as Edgar Allan Poe and Dolly Parton: January 19. I am absolutely certain that this affects my writing in some way. ~ Eden Robinson,
562:Now this is the point. You fancy me a mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded... ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
563:the truth is, I am heartily sick of this life & of the nineteenth century in general. (I am convinced that every thing is going wrong.) ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
564:And boyhood is a summer sun / Whose waning is the dreariest one-- / For all we live to know is known, / And all we seek to keep hath flown-- ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
565:If any ambitious man have a fancy to revolutionize, at one effort, the universal world of human thought, human opinion, and human sentiment. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
566:[The daguerreotype] itself must undoubtedly be regarded as the most important, and perhaps the most extraordinary triumph of modern science. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
567:There are certain themes of which the interest is all-absorbing, but which are too entirely horrible for the purposes of legitimate fiction. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
568:Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day, or the agonies which are, have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
569:pero es una característica de la perversidad de la naturaleza humana el rechazar lo obvio y lo inmediato a cambio de lo equívoco y lo lejano. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
570:The intellectual or logical man, rather than the understanding or observant man, set himself to imagine designs — to dictate purposes to God. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
571:To him, who still would gaze upon the glory of the summer sun, there comes, when that sun will from him part, a sullen hopelessness of heart. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
572:For years your name never passed my lips, while my soul drank in, with a delirious thirst, all that was uttered in my presence respecting you. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
573:It was my choice or chance or curse To adopt the cause for better or worse And with my worldly goods & wit And soul & body worship it— ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
574:Life is for the strong, to be lived by the strong and if need be, taken by the strong. The weak were put on earth to give the strong pleasure. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
575:There is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of him who, shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a Plunge. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
576:He must be theory-mad beyond redemption who ... shall ... persist in attempting to reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
577:Always keep a big bottle of booze at your side. If a bird starts talking nonsense to you in the middle of the night pour yourself a stiff drink. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
578:EDGAR ALLAN POE was born on January 19, 1809, in Boston, the second of three children born to actors David Poe Jr. and Elizabeth Arnold Hopkins. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
579:Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied,-
"If you seek for Eldorado. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
580:(...) Pero en la intensidad de su salvaje deseo de vivir, vivir, SOLO vivir, el consuelo y la razón eran el colmo de la locura.

[Ligeia] ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
581:Acaso un par de azadonazos fueron suficientes, mientras sus ayudantes estaban ocupados en el hoyo; acaso necesitó una docena. ¿Quién nos lo dirá? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
582:For my own part, I have never had a thought which I could not set down in words, with even more distinctness than that with which I conceived it. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
583:Había mucho de lo bello, mucho de lo licencioso, mucho de lo bizarre, algo de lo terrible y no poco de lo que podría haber producido repugnancia. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
584:Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is Law, merely because we understand it to be such? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
585:In the Heaven's above, the angels, whispering to one another, can find, among their burning terms of love, none so devotional as that of 'Mother. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
586:I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee— ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
587:So far as any literary genre can be said to have been invented by one author, Edgar Allan Poe is that author, and the detective story is that genre. ~ Paul Collins,
588:Thank Heaven! The crisis /The danger is past, and the lingering illness, is over at last /, and the fever called ''Living'' is conquered at last. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
589:In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
590:Vai nu atmiņas par vakardienas laimi liek mums ciest šodien, vai arī šīsdienas ciešanu sakne meklējama pāri plūstošā priekā, kas varētu būt bijis. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
591:But, father, there liv’d one who, then, Then—in my boyhood—when their fire Burn’d with a still intenser glow (For passion must, with youth, expire) ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
592:It was many and many a year ago,          In a kingdom by the sea,      That a maiden lived whom you may know          By the name of ANNABEL LEE;— ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
593:There are few cases in which mere popularity should be considered a proper test of merit; but the case of song-writing is, I think, one of the few. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
594:From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were - I have not seen
As others saw - I could not bring
My passions from a common spring - ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
595:tinha mania de chamar de "esquisito" tudo o que estava além da própria compreensão, vivendo assim cercado por uma verdadeira legião de "esquisitices ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
596:When the Hours flew brightly by      And not a cloud obscured the sky,      My soul, lest it should truant be,      Thy grace did guide to thine and ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
597:Experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger, portion of truth arises from the seemingly irrelevant. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
598:Escrutando hondo en aquella negrura permanecí largo rato, atónito, temeroso, dudando, soñando sueños que ningún mortal se haya atrevido jamás a soñar. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
599:Un dessein si funeste,
S'il n'est digne d'Atrée, est digne de Tyeste

Such a mean plan is unworthy of Atreus, but totally worthy of Thyestes ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
600:Whether people grow fat by joking, or whether there is something in fat itself which predisposes to a joke, I have never been quite able to determine. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
601:While the male is absent at sea in search of food, the female remains on duty, and it is only upon the return of her partner that she ventures abroad. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
602:That pleasure which is at once the most pure, the most elevating and the most intense, is derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the beautiful. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
603:The most natural, and, consequently, the truest and most intense of the human affections are those which arise in the heart as if by electric sympathy. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
604:Experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger portion of the truth arises from the seemingly irrelevant. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
605:Un instante después mi ser sentíase penetrado de un inmenso deseo de caer, una ansia, una ternura hacia el abismo, una pasión absolutamente indominable. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
606:«Otros amigos ya han volado lejos de mí; hacia la mañana, también él me abandonará como mis antiguas esperanzas». El pájaro dijo entonces: «¡Nunca más!». ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
607:Pero los bancos no son individuos, sino sociedades, y las sociedades carecen de cuerpos donde se puedan aplicar puntapiés y de almas que mandar al demonio ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
608:The ninety and nine are with dreams, content but the hope of the world made new, is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
609:In Heaven a spirit both dwell
Whose heart-strings are a lute —
None sing so wild — so well
As the angel Israfel —
And the giddy stars are mute. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
610:The ninety and nine are with dreams, content, but the hope of the world made new, is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
611:A cadaverousness of complexion; an eye large, liquid and very luminous...finely molded chin, speaking, in its want of prominence, of a want of moral energy. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
612:For a moment of intense terror she paused upon the giddy pinnacle, as if in contemplation of her own sublimity, then trembled and tottered, and---came down. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
613:How often we forget all time, when lone Admiring Nature’s universal throne; Her woods—her wilds—her mountains—the intense Reply of HERS to OUR intelligence! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
614:I found him well educated, with unusual powers of mind, but infected with misanthropy, and subject to perverse moods of alternate enthusiasm and melancholy. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
615:The ninety and nine are with dreams, content, but the hope of the world made new, is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
616:The true genius shudders at incompleteness — imperfection — and usually prefers silence to saying the something which is not everything that should be said. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
617:Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before … — EDGAR ALLAN POE ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
618:I tell you, he had stolen the body of Edgar Allan Poe—and as he shrieked aloud in his final madness, did not this indeed make him the greatest collector of Poe? ~ Robert Bloch,
619:I was deeply interested in the little family history which he detailed to me with all that candor which a Frenchman indulges whenever mere self is the theme. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
620:Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
621:Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term art, I should call it the Reproduction of what the senses perceive in nature through the veil of the mist. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
622:Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore! Quoth the raven, `Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
623:The convex surface of any segment of a sphere is, to the entire surface of the sphere itself, as the versed sine of the segment to the diameter of the sphere. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
624:Ah, not in knowledge is happiness, but in the acquisition of knowledge! In forever knowing, we are forever blessed; but to know all, were the curse of a fiend. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
625:There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
626:We want characters - characters man - something novel - out of the way. We are wearied with everlasting sameness. Come drink! the wine will brighten your wits. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
627:—¡Y todo esto viene del escarabajo de oro! ¡Del pobre escarabajito, al que yo insultaba y calumniaba! ¿No te avergüenzas de ti mismo, negro? ¡Anda, contéstame! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
628:And then there are times, Mr. Osgood, when one must just let go.” His gaze softened. “I believe,” he said after a moment, “that those are the happiest of times. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
629:CHAPTER 40 It is in our faults and failings, not in our virtues, that we touch each other, and find sympathy. It is in our follies that we are one. – Edgar Allan Poe ~ Rod Duncan,
630:As a viewed myself in a fragment of looking-glass..., I was so impressed with a sense of vague awe at my appearance ... that I was seized with a violent tremour. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
631:I have been happy, though in a dream. I have been happy-and I love the theme: Dreams! in their vivid colouring of life As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
632:Les quatre conditions élémentaires du bonheur sont : la vie en plein air, l'amour d'une femme, le détachement de toute ambition et la création d'un Beau nouveau. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
633:No pictorial or sculptural combinations of points of human loveliness, do more than approach the living and breathing human beauty as it gladdens our daily path. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
634:Un esprit tourné à la folie pouvait bien se laisser entraîner par de pareilles suggestions, surtout quand elles s'accordaient avec ses idées favorites préconçues ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
635:And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"— here I opened wide the door; — Darkness there, and nothing more. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
636:Escudriñando con atención estas tinieblas, durante mucho tiempo quedé lleno de asombro, de temor, de duda, soñando con lo que ningún mortal se ha atrevido a soñar; ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
637:In one case out of a hundred a point is excessively discussed because it is obscure; in the ninety-nine remaining it is obscure because it is excessively discussed. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
638:I've named a couple things after Edgar Allan Poe: the cat, and my garden upstate, where I only planted black flowers and purple flowers - and there's a raven statue. ~ Hilarie Burton,
639:In a night such as is this to me, a man lives-lives a whole century of life-nor would I forgo this rapturous delight for that of a whole century of ordinary existence. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
640:In our endeavors to recall to memory something long forgotten, we often find ourselves upon the very verge of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
641:Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors ... on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
642:Me ocurría a veces, en realidad, pensar que su mente, agitada sin tregua, estaba torturada por algún secreto opresor, cuya divulgación no tenía el valor para efectuar. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
643:Music, when combined with a pleasurable idea, is poetry; music, without the idea, is simply music; the idea, without the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
644:And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams-- In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
645:And so, all the night-tide, I lay down the side, of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride, in the sepulchre there by the sea, in her tomb by the surrounding sea. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
646:—bajo las trémulas hojas del lilo— sosteniendo en tu blanca mano flores violáceas... Anoche, en sueños, te vi, con el porte exquisito de una ninfa del País de las Hadas ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
647:He is fond of enigmas, of conundrums, of hieroglyphics; exhibiting in his solutions of each a degree of acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension præternatural. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
648:It is in Music, perhaps, that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired by the Poetic Sentiment, it struggles—the creation of supernal Beauty. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
649:Twere better than the dull reality
Of waking life to him whose heart shall be,
And hath been ever, on the chilly earth,
A chaos of deep passion from his birth! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
650:Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before…”
Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven ~ Ania Ahlborn,
651:If the propositions of this Discourse are tenable, the "state of progressive collapse" is precisely that state in which alone we are warranted in considering All Things. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
652:John Greely was the eldest and stoutest of the five, and had the reputation of being the strongest man, as well as best shot in Kentucky——from which State they all came. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
653:Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely - flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
654:And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"— here I opened wide the door; —
Darkness there, and nothing more. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
655:I have been happy, though in a dream.
I have been happy-and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid colouring of life
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
656:John Greely was the eldest and stoutest of the five, and had the reputation of being the strongest man, as well as best shot in Kentucky — from which State they all came. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
657:Sensations are the great things, after all. Should you ever be drowned or hung, be sure and make a note of your sensations; they will be worth to you ten guineas a sheet. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
658:Citó la vieja historia del decoro –ese espantajo que a tantos detiene para alcanzar la felicidad, hasta que la oportunidad de conseguirla se les ha escapado para siempre–. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
659:I would say that Edgar Allan Poe, [Georges] Perec, Thomas Pynchon, and [Jorge Luis] Borges are all boy-writers. These are writers who take... a kind of demonic joy in writing. ~ Paul Auster,
660:The modern story begun, one might say, with Edgar Allan Poe, which proceeds inexorably, like a machine destined to accomplish its mission with the maximum economy of means. ~ Julio Cortazar,
661:The modern story begun, one might say, with Edgar Allan Poe, which proceeds inexorably, like a machine destined to accomplish its mission with the maximum economy of means. ~ Julio Cort zar,
662:There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart - an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
663:For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but i feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
664:From childhood's hour I have not been. As others were, I have not seen. As others saw, I could not awaken. My heart to joy at the same tone. And all I loved, I loved alone. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
665:If I could dwell where Israfel hath dwelt and he where I he might not sing so wildly well a mortal melody while a bolder note then this might swell from my lyre in the sky. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
666:A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
667:The higher powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more usefully tasked by the unostentatious game of draughts than by all the elaborate frivolity of chess. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
668:But she died; and with my own hands I bore her to the tomb; and I laughed with a long and bitter laugh as I found no traces of the first in the channel where I laid the second. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
669:Era una sensación glacial, un abatimiento, una náusea en el corazón, una irremediable tristeza de pensamiento que ningún estímulo de la imaginación podía impulsar a lo sublime. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
670:Hay algo en el generoso y abnegado amor de un animal que llega directamente al corazón de aquel que con frecuencia a probado la falsa amistad y la frágil fidelidad del hombre". ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
671:Hay algo en el generoso y abnegado amor de un animal que llega directamente al corazón de aquel que con frecuencia ha probado la falsa amistad y la frágil fidelidad del hombre. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
672:Let him talk," said Dupin, who had not thought it necessary to reply. "Let him discourse; it will ease his conscience, I a satisfied with having defeated him in his own castle. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
673:The analytical power should not be confounded with ample ingenuity; for while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often remarkably incapable of analysis. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
674:The esteemed Reverend Rufus Griswold is everything I aspire to be, though I fear I shall never soar so quite as high as he"
-from his resignation letter to Graham's Magazine ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
675:As the strong man exults in his physical ability, delighting in such exercises as call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that moral activity which disentangles. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
676:In [chess], where the pieces have different and "bizarre" motions, with various and variable values, what is only complex, is mistaken (a not unusual error) for what is profound ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
677:One half of the pleasure experienced at a theatre arises from the spectator's sympathy with the rest of the audience, and, especially from his belief in their sympathy with him. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
678:The analytical power should not be confounded with simple ingenuity; for while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often remarkably incapable of analysis. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
679:As an individual, I myself feel impelled to fancy ... a limitless succession of Universes.... Each exists, apart and independently, in the bosom of its proper and particular God. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
680:I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
681:There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives, amused themselves in retracing the steps by which particular conclusions of their own minds have been attained. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
682:Yet if Hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
683:Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever! Let the bell toll!-a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river; And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?-weep now or nevermore! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
684:Whether the world at large recognized him or his work, something had changed inside the shifting identity of the fugitive Edgar Allan Poe—something irrevocable. He was an author now. ~ Paul Collins,
685:And again, and again, in secret communion with my own spirit, would I demand the questions "Who is he? — whence came he? — and what are his objects?" But no answer was there found. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
686:Cuando nos despertamos del más profundo sueño, rompemos la telaraña de algún sueño. Y, no obstante, un segundo más tarde es tan delicado este tejido, que no recordamos haber soñado. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
687:I am actuated by an ambition which I believe to be an honourable one — the ambition of serving the great cause of truth, while endeavouring to forward the literature of the country. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
688:Men of genius are far more abundant than is supposed. In fact, to appreciate thoroughly the work of what we call genius, is to possess all the genius by which the work was produced. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
689:Son front, quoique peu ridé, semble porter le sceau d'une myriade d'années. Ses cheveux gris sont des archives du passé et ses yeux, plus gris encore, sont des sibylles de l'avenir. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
690:A viagem é turística, mas suplico que o leitor não o seja; o turista registra sem absorver, o viajante vivencia para aprender. Um apenas sonha, o outro desperta de um sonho profundo. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
691:Īstenība man likās kā maldu tēls, vienīgi maldu tēls, bet sapņu valstības rēgainie priekšstati savukārt kļuva par manas esības pamatu- tikai šinī valstībā nedalāmi ritēja mana dzīve. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
692:Alas! for that accursed time They bore thee o'er the billow, From love to titled age and crime, And an unholy pillow! From me, and from our misty clime, Where weeps the silver willow! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
693:And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams--
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
694:My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be conveyed: and here I may as well observe that, throughout the construction, I kept steadily in view the design. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
695:On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece,
And the grandeur that was Rome. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
696:There are some qualities, some incorporate things, that have a double life, which thus is made. A type os twin entity which springs from matter and light, envinced in solid and shade. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
697:Depend upon it, after all, Thomas, Literature is the most noble of professions. In fact, it is about the only one fit for a man. For my own part, there is no seducing me from the path. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
698:Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll!-a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?-weep now or nevermore! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
699:en nuestros esfuerzos por traer a la memoria una cosa olvidada desde hace largo tiempo, nos encontremos con frecuencia al borde mismo del recuerdo, sin ser al fin capaces de recordar. Y ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
700:I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of golden sand- How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep- while I weep! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
701:she died; and with my own hands I bore her to the tomb; and I laughed with a long and bitter laugh as I found no traces of the first in the channel where I laid the second.—Morella. THE ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
702:though I said art sure no craven vastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore, tell me why thy lordly name is on the nigts plutonium shore, quoth the raven "never more ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
703:..bear in mind that, in general, it is the object of our newspapers rather to create a sensation-to make a point-than to further the cause of truth." Dupin in "The Mystery of Marie Roget ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
704:By undue profundity we perplex and enfeeble thought; and it is possible to make even Venus herself vanish from the firmament by a scrutiny too sustained, too concentrated, or too direct. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
705:Many years ago, I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William Legrand. He was of an ancient Huguenot family, and had once been wealthy; but a series of misfortunes had reduced him to want. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
706:And who shall calculate the immense influence upon social life--upon arts--upon commerce--upon literature--which will be the immediate result of the great principles of electro-magnetics! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
707:(...) De todas las mujeres que he conocido, la exteriormente tranquila, la siempre plácida Ligeia era presa, con más violencia que nadie, de los tumultosos buitres de la dura pasión (...) ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
708:I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand— How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep While I weep—while I weep! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
709:Odors have an altogether peculiar force, in affecting us through association; a force differing essentially from that of objects addressing the touch, the taste, the sight or the hearing. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
710:Ser el pollo quien tener alas, y el búho quien tener alas, y el demonio quien tener alas, y el diablo mayor quien tener alas. El ángel no tener alas, y yo ser el Ángel de lo Estrambótico. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
711:Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster is based in part on true events. “The Monster” did indeed terrorize the ladies of London from 1788–1790, slicing the derrières of over fifty victims, ~ Karen Lee Street,
712:How much more intense is the excitement wrought in the feelings of a crowd by the contemplation of human agony, than that brought about by the most appalling spectacles of inanimate matter. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
713:I seemed to be upon the verge of comprehension, without the power to comprehend as men, at time, find themselves upon the brink of rememberance, without being able, in the end, to remember. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
714:The most 'popular,' the most 'successful' writers among us (for a brief period, at least) are, 99 times out of a hundred, persons of mere effrontery-in a word, busy-bodies, toadies, quacks. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
715:And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
716:That is another of your odd notions," said the Prefect, who had a fashion of calling every thing "odd" that was beyond his comprehension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of "oddities. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
717:That is another of your odd notions,’ said the Prefect, who had a fashion of calling every thing ‘odd’ that was beyond his comprehension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of ‘oddities. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
718:En los días más brillantes de su belleza incomparable no la amé. En la extraña anomalía de mi existencia, mis sentimientos nunca venían del corazón, y mis pasiones siempre venían de la mente. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
719:I am not more certain that I breathe, than that the assurance of the wrong or error of any action is often the one unconquerable force which impels us, and alone impels us to its prosecution. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
720:The poet Edgar Allan Poe described the false awakening phenomenon long before Carl Jung was born. He wrote, ‘All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.’ Have I answered your question? ~ Stephen King,
721:There was not a sous-cusinier in Rouen, who could not have told you that Bon-Bon was a man of genius. His very cat knew it, and forebore to whisk her tail in the presence of the man of genius. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
722:At midnight, in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon. An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, Exhales from out her golden rim, And, softly dripping, drop by drop, Upon the quiet mountain top, ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
723:Horrors of a nature most stern and most appalling would too frequently obtrude themselves upon my mind, and shake the innermost depths of my soul with the bare supposition of their possibility. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
724:I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country, and at length found myself, as the shades of evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
725:Who does not remember that, at such a time as this, the eye, like a shattered mirror, multiplies the images of its sorrow, and sees in innumerable far-off places, the wo which is close at hand? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
726:The death then of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world, and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
727:We now demand the light artillery of the intellect; we need the curt, the condensed, the pointed, the readily diffused -- in place of the verbose, the detailed, the voluminous, the inaccessible. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
728:Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears [...] ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
729:A strong argument for the religion of Christ is this - that offences against Charity are about the only ones which men on their death-beds can be made - not to understand - but to feel - as crime. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
730:A strong argument for the religion of Christ is this - that offenses against Charity are about the only ones which men on their death-beds can be made - not to understand - but to feel - as crime. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
731:I have often been reproached with the aridity of my genius; a deficiency of imagination has been imputed to me as a crime; and the Pyrrhonism of my opinions has at all times rendered me notorious. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
732:To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven-
From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven-
From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
733:Esaminiamo tutte le azioni di questo genere e troveremo sempre che derivano unicamente dallo spirito di perversità, che cioè noi le commettiamo solo in quanto sentiamo che non dovremmo commetterle. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
734:I always thought it would be really, really cool to play Edgar Allan Poe, because when I was a kid, he was one of the authors who really blew my mind open to all sorts of weird dark and twisted places. ~ Ezra Miller,
735:Ils ont découvert le principe de la «lettre volée» d'Edgar Allan Poe : le meilleur cachette est celle qui crève les yeux, car on pense toujours à aller chercher plus loin ce qui se trouve tout près. ~ Bernard Werber,
736:Moartea unei femei frumoase e, fără îndoială, cel mai poetic subiect din lume şi e de asemeni sigur că îndrăgostitul care îşi plînge iubita este cel mai indicat pentru a vorbi despre acest subiect. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
737:Alas! for that accursed time
They bore thee o'er the billow,
From love to titled age and crime,
And an unholy pillow!
From me, and from our misty clime,
Where weeps the silver willow! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
738:The Romans worshipped their standard; and the Roman standard happened to be an eagle. Our standard is only one tenth of an eagle,--a dollar, but we make all even by adoring it with tenfold devotion. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
739:True, nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am, but why will say that I am mad?! The disease had haunted my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Of all the sense of hearing acute. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
740:all the night-tide, I lie down by the side         Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,                 In her sepulchre there by the sea—                 In her tomb by the side of the sea. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
741:A short story is "a short prose narrative, requiring from a half hour, to one or two hours in its perusal...having conceived, with deliberate care, a certain unique or single effect to be wrought out. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
742:I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love- I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
743:How had I deserved to be so blessed by such confessions? —how had I deserved to be so cursed with the removal of my beloved in the hour of her making them, But upon this subject I cannot bear to dilate. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
744:How is it that from beauty I have derived a type of unloveliness?—from the covenant of peace a simile of sorrow? But as, in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so, in fact, out of joy is sorrow born. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
745:And his brow was lofty with thought, and his eye wild with care; and, in the few furrows upon his cheek I read the fables of sorrow, and weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
746:...he was the last person I expected to find on the Rushes' front porch. Well, okay. Maybe no the last. That title most likely belonged to the Queen of England or the reanimated corpse of Edgar Allan Poe. ~ Kody Keplinger,
747:in discourse, the lovers whiled away         The night that waned and waned and brought no day.         They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts         Who hear not for the beating of their hearts. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
748:In the tale proper--where there is no space for development of character or for great profusion and variety of incident--mere construction is, of course, far more imperatively demanded than in the novel. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
749:I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
750:And what are we to think, I asked,"of the article in Le Soleil?"

"That it is a vast pity its inditer was not born a parrot--in which case he would have been the most illustrious parrot of his race. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
751:Science has its place in man’s search for understanding, but science and the imagination have tended to bifurcate in the modern world; only the true poetic intellect can end this long-established dualism. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
752:The sole purpose is to provide infinite springs, at which the soul may allay the eternal thirst TO KNOW which is forever unquenchable within it, since to quench it, would be to extinguish the soul's self. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
753:I have no faith in human perfectability. I think that human exertion will have no appreciable effect upon humanity. Man is now only more active - not more happy - nor more wise, than he was 6000 years ago. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
754:I have no faith in human perfectibility. I think that human exertion will have no appreciable effect upon humanity. Man is now only more active - not more happy - nor more wise, than he was 6000 years ago. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
755:I was cautious in what I said before the young lady; for I could not be sure that she was sane; and, in fact, there was a certain restless brilliancy about her eyes that half led me to imagine she was not. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
756:Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem per se, the circumstance ... which, in the first place, gave rise to the intention of composing a poem that should suit at once the popular and the critical taste. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
757:When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect - they refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of soul - not of intellect, or of heart. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
758:Be silent in that solitude    Which is not loneliness - for then The spirits of the dead who stood    In life before thee are again In death around thee - and their will Shall then overshadow thee: be still. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
759:Impromptu - To Kate Carol
When from your gems of thought I turn
To those pure orbs, your heart to learn,
I scarce know which to prize most high —
The bright i-dea, or the bright dear-eye.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
760:Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
761:No intentaré describir los sentimientos con que contemplaba aquello. El asombro, naturalmente, predominaba sobre los demás. Legrand parecía exhausto por la excitación, y no profirió más que algunas palabras. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
762:The unity of effect or impression is a point of the greatest importance. It is clear, moreover, that this unity cannot be thoroughly preserved in productions whose perusal cannot be completed at one sitting. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
763:True, nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am, but why will say that I am mad?! The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
764:When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect - they refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of soul - not of intellect, or of heart. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
765:The old man,” I said at length, “is the type and the genius of deep crime. He refuses to be alone. He is the man of the crowd. It will be in vain to follow, for I shall learn no more of him, nor of his deeds. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
766:...the question is of will, and not, as the insanity of logic has assumed, of power. It is not that the Deity cannot modify his laws, but that we insult him in imagining a possible necessity for modification. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
767:There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion, even by the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
768:There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
769:The object, Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and the object, Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although attainable, to a certain extent, in poetry, far more readily attainable in prose. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
770:Y, entonces, reconocieron la presencia de la «Muerte Roja», Había llegado como un ladrón en la noche, y, uno por uno, cayeron los alegres libertinos por las salas de la orgía, inundados de un rocío sangriento. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
771:There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
772:There can be no doubt that the consciousness of the rapid increase of my superstition—for why should I not so term it?—served mainly to accelerate the increase itself. Such, I have long known, is the paradoxical ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
773:It is the curse of a certain order of mind, that it can never rest satisfied with the consciousness of its ability to do a thing.Still less is it content with doing it. It must both know and show how it was done. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
774:Had Prozac been available last century, Baudelaire’s “spleen,” Edgar Allan Poe’s moods, the poetry of Sylvia Plath, the lamentations of so many other poets, everything with a soul would have been silenced. … ~ Nassim Nicholas Taleb,
775:I have not only labored solely for the benefit of others (receiving for myself a miserable pittance), but have been forced to model my thoughts at the will of men whose imbecility was evident to all but themselves ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
776:The best chess-player in Christendom may be little more than the best player of chess; but proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all those more important undertakings where mind struggles with mind. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
777:The writer who neglects punctuation, or mispunctuates, is liable to be misunderstood for the want of merely a comma, it often occurs that an axiom appears a paradox, or that a sarcasm is converted into a sermonoid. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
778:No thinking being lives who, at some luminous point of his life of thought, has not felt himself lost amid the surges of futile efforts at understanding, or believing, that anything exists greater than his own soul. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
779:Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
780:All the heavens seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight
Keeping time.time.time
In a sort Runic rhyme,
To the tintinabulation that so musically wells
From the bells,bells,bells,
Bells,bells,bells. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
781:Most writers - poets in especial - prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy - an ecstatic intuition - and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
782:If you have never been at sea in a heavy gale, you can form no idea of the confusion of mind occasioned by wind and spry together. They blind, deafen, and strangle you, and take away all power of action or reflection. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
783:Yes, it would nice for this fifty year period, this cradle of all vampire short stories in the English language, to include a vampire tale by Edgar Allan Poe. But the sad answer is that Poe never penned a vampire story. ~ Andrew Barger,
784:We grew in age—and love—together, Roaming the forest, and the wild; My breast her shield in wintry weather— And, when the friendly sunshine smil’d, And she would mark the opening skies, I saw no Heaven—but in her eyes. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
785: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! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
786:Finally on Sunday morning, October 7, 1849, "He became quiet and seemed to rest for a short time. Then, gently, moving his head," he said, "Lord help my poor soul." As he had lived so he died-in great misery and tragedy. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
787:If there was ever a dissenter from the national optimismit was surely Edgar Allan Poe--without question the bravest and mostoriginal, if perhaps also the least orderly and judicious, of all the critics that we have produced. ~ H L Mencken,
788:I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
789:I will, therefore, take occasion to assert that the higher powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more usefully tasked by the unostentatious game of draughts than by a the elaborate frivolity of chess. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
790:The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my frame. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
791:How solemnly pervading the calm air!
A sound of silence on the startled ear
Which dreamy poets name "the music of the sphere."
Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call
"Silence"—which is the merest word of all. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
792:I had arrived at that well-known portion of the story where Ethelred, the hero of the Trist, having sought in vain for peaceable admission into the dwelling of the hermit, proceeds to make good an entrance by force. Here, ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
793:It will be hard to discover a better [method of education] than that which the experience of so many ages has already discovered; and this may be summed up as consisting in gymnastics for the body, and music for the soul. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
794:…nasıl etikte kötü iyinin bir sonucuysa, yine aynı şekilde sevinçten keder doğar. Ya geçmişte kalmış mutlulukların anısı bugünün acısıdır, ya da var olan ıstıraplar kökenlerini var olmuş olabilecek esrikliklerden alırlar. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
795:The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body; and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my frame. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
796:You are not wrong who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
797:I must not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
798:By undue profundity, we perplex and enfeeble thought; and it is possible to make even Venus herself vanish from the firmament by a scrutiny too sustained, too concentrated, or too direct.

The Murders in the Rue Morgue ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
799:I began to reflect how magnificent a thing it was to die in such a manner, and how foolish it was in me to think of so paltry a consideration as my own individual life, in view of so wonderful a manifestation of God’s power. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
800:I could have clasped the red walls to my bosom as a garment of eternal peace. "Death," I said, "any death but that of the pit!" Fool! might I have not known that into the pit it was the object of the burning iron to urge me? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
801:It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
802:Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heartone of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
803:At five that morning, Edgar Allan Poe met the fate anticipated in his poem “To Annie”: Thank Heaven! the crisis— The danger is past, And the lingering illness, Is over at last— And the Fever called ‘Living’ Is conquer’d at last. ~ Paul Collins,
804:En los corazones de los hombres más temerarios hay cuerdas que no se dejan tocar sin emoción. Hasta en los más depravados, en quienes la vida y la muerte son siempre motivo de juego, hay cosas con las que no se puede bromear. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
805:I love writing literary stuff. My favorite writer is definitely Edgar Allan Poe - so imaginative and prolific. My second favorite writer would have to be Shakespeare - I love the emotion and human truths he touches on so beautifully. ~ MC Lars,
806:In beauty of face no maiden ever equaled her. It was the radiance of an opium-dream - an airy and spirit-lifting vision more wildly divine than the fantasies which hovered about the slumbering souls of the daughters of Delos. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
807:At times we gasped for breath at an elevation beyond the albatross---at times became dizzy with the velocity of our descent into some watery hell, where the air grew stagnant, and no sound disturbed the slumbers of the kraken. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
808:I must not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong. It ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
809:Majesty had no eyes whatsoever, but could discover no indications of their having existed at any previous period — for the space where eyes should naturally have been was, I am constrained to say, simply a dead level of flesh. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
810:The first action of my life was the taking hold of my nose with both hands. My mother saw this and called me a genius:-my father wept for joy and presented me with a treatise on Nosology. This I mastered before I was breeched. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
811:I believed, and still do believe, that truth, is frequently of its own essence, superficial, and that, in many cases, the depth lies more in the abysses where we seek her, than in the actual situations wherein she may be found. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
812:Igual que en la ética el mal es consecuencia del bien, en realidad de la alegría nace la tristeza. O la memoria de la dicha pasada es la angustia de hoy, o las agonías que son se originan en los éxtasis que pudieron haber sido. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
813:I made use of the college library by borrowing books other than scientific books, such as all of the plays by George Bernard Shaw, the writing of Edgar Allan Poe. The college library helped me to develop a broader aspect on life. ~ Linus Pauling,
814:Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart - one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of man. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
815:You need not attempt to shake off or to banter off Romance. It is an evil you will never get rid of to the end of your days. It is a part of yourself ... of your soul. Age will only mellow it a little, and give it a holier tone. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
816:Infames pensamientos convirtiéronse en mis íntimos; los más sombríos, los más infames de todos los pensamientos. La tristeza de mi humor de costumbre se acrecentó hasta hacerme aborrecer a todas las cosas y a la Humanidad entera. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
817:Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! — Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — On this home by Horror haunted  ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
818:Truth is not always in a well. In fact, as regards the more important knowledge, I do believe that she is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where she is found. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
819:En los corazones de los hombres más temerarios hay cuerdas que no se dejan tocar sin emoción. Hasta en los más depravados, en quienes la vida y la muerte son siempre motivo de juego, hay cosas con las que no se puede bromear. Toda ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
820:In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
"Whose heart-strings are a lute;"
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy stars (so legends tell)
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
821:I fashion the expression of my face, as accurately as possible, in accordance with the expression of his, and then wait to see what thoughts or sentiments arise in my mind or heart, as if to match or correspond with the expression. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
822:This accident, with the loss of my insurance, and with the more serious loss of my hair, - the whole of which had been singed off by fire, - predisposed me to serious impressions, so that, finally, I made up my mind to take a wife. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
823:A fearful instance of the ill consequences attending upon irascibility - alive, with the qualifications of the dead - dead, with the propensities of the living - an anomaly on the face of the earth - being very calm, yet breathless. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
824:... tan seguro estoy de que mi alma existe como de que la perversidad es uno de los impulsos primordiales del corazón humano, una de las facultades primarias indivisibles, uno de esos sentimientos que dirigen el carácter del hombre. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
825:With me poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be held in reverence: they must not they cannot at will be excited, with an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of mankind. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
826:Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered-- Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before-- On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
827:Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore — Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” Quoth the raven, “Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
828:Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
"On! on!" — but o'er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
829:To conceive the horror of my sensations is, I presume, utterly impossible; yet a curiosity to penetrate the mysteries of these awful regions predominates even over my despair, and will reconcile me to the most hideous aspect of death. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
830:With me poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be held in reverence: they must not — they cannot at will be excited, with an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of mankind. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
831:And here, in thought, to thee-
In thought that can alone,
Ascend thy empire and so be
A partner of thy throne,
By winged Fantasy,
My embassy is given,
Till secrecy shall knowledge be
In the environs of Heaven. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
832:As I imagined, the ship proves to be in a current; if that appellation can properly be given to a tide, which, howling and shrieking by the white ice, thunders on to the southward with a velocity like the headlong dashing of a cataract. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
833:But in the expression of the countenance, which was beaming all over with smiles, there still lurked (incomprehensible anomalyl) that fitful strain of melancholy which will ever be found inseparable from the perfection of the beautiful. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
834:I heed not that my earthly lot Hath - little of Earth in it - That years of love have been forgot In the hatred of a minute: - I mourn not that the desolate Are happier, sweet, than I, But that you sorrow for my fate Who am a passer by. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
835:O craving heart, for the lost flowers/ And sunshine of my summer hours!/ The undying voice of that dead time,/ With its interminable chime,/ Rings in the spirit of a spell, / Upon thy emptiness--a knell. / I have not always been as now: ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
836:Para mí, la poesía no ha sido un fin propuesto, sino una pasión; y las pasiones merecen reverencia: no deben, no pueden ser suscitadas en vistas de las mezquinas compensaciones de la humanidad o de sus elogios, aún más mezquinos. E.A.P. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
837:The Bostonians are really, as a race, far inferior in point of anything beyond mere intellect to any other set upon the continent of North America. They are decidedly the most servile imitators of the English it is possible to conceive. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
838:The teeth!—the teeth!—they were here, and there, and everywhere, and visibly and palpably before me; long, narrow, and excessively white, with the pale lips writhing about them, as in the very moment of their first terrible development. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
839:The usual derivation of the word Metaphysics is not to be sustainedthe science is supposed to take its name from its superiority to physics. The truth is, that Aristotle's treatise on Morals is next in succession to his Book of Physics. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
840:The realities of the world affected me as visions, and as visions only, while the wild ideas of the land of dreams became, in turn,—not the material of my every-day existence--but in very deed that existence utterly and solely in itself. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
841:The Bostonians are very well in their way. Their hotels are bad. Their pumpkin pies are delicious. Their poetry is not so good. Their Common is no common thing - and the duck pond might answer - if its answer could be heard for the frogs. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
842: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. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
843:He never wanted me to go to university; it didn’t matter that I’d been obsessed with English literature since I was little, that I went so far as dressing as Edgar Allan Poe for Halloween one year (yeah, I was what wet dreams were made of), ~ Laura Thalassa,
844:If Mr. Vincent Price were to be co-starred with Miss Bette Davis in a story by Mr. Edgar Allan Poe directed by Mr. Roger Corman, it could not fully express the pent-up violence and depravity of a single day in the life of the average family. ~ Quentin Crisp,
845:I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal necessity, transient. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
846:To me [Edgar Allan Poe's] prose is unreadable—like Jane Austin's [sic]. No there is a difference. I could read his prose on salary, but not Jane's. Jane is entirely impossible. It seems a great pity that they allowed her to die a natural death. ~ Mark Twain,
847:We grew in age - and love - together
Roaming the forest, and the wild;
My breast her shield in wintry weather -
And, when the friendly sunshine smil'd,
And she would mark the opening skies,
I saw no Heaven - but in her eyes. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
848:...something which, for want of a more definite term at present, I must be permitted to be called queer; but which Mr. Coleridge would have called mystical, Mr. Kant pantheistical, Mr. Carlyle twistical, and Mr. Emerson hyperquizzitistical. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
849:In spite of the air of fablethe public were still not at all disposed to receive it as fable. I thence concluded that the facts of my narrative would prove of such a nature as to carry with them sufficient evidence of their own authenticity. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
850:To see distinctly the machinery--the wheels and pinions--of any work of Art is, unquestionably, of itself, a pleasure, but one which we are able to enjoy only just in proportion as we do not enjoy the legitimate effect designed by the artist. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
851:Yet we met; and fate bound us together at the alter,and I never spoke of passion nor thought of love. She, however shunned society, and, attaching herself to me alone rendered me happy. It is a happiness to wonder; it is a happiness to dream. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
852:You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
853:But as, in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so, in fact, out of joy is sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of today, or the agonies which are have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
854:In other words, I believed, and still do believe, that truth, is frequently of its own essence, superficial, and that, in many cases, the depth lies more in the abysses where we seek her, than in the actual situations wherein she may be found. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
855:It was night, and the rain fell; and falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall and the rain fell upon my head-and the lilies sighed one unto the other in the solemnity of their desolation. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
856:It was night, and the rain fell; and falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall and the rain fell upon my head—and the lilies sighed one unto the other in the solemnity of their desolation. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
857:Not altogether a fool," said G., "but then he's a poet, which I take to be only one remove from a fool."

"True," said Dupin, after a long and thoughtful whiff from his meerschaum, "although I have been guilty of certain doggerel myself. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
858:There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man." ~ Edgar Allan Poe 'The Black Cat. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
859:...And, all at once, the moon arouse through the thin ghastly mist, And was crimson in color... And they lynx which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom. And lay down at the feet of the demon. And looked at him steadily in the face. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
860:[Cat] found a complete set of the works of Edgar Allan Poe, with little tabs of paper sticking out. The were scrawled over with the witch's comments to herself, "Fun!" "Try this, but with exploding feathers!" and "Gotta love him -- deeply sick. ~ Gregory Maguire,
861:We will say, then, that I am mad. I grant, at least, that there are two distinct conditions of my mental existence—the condition of a lucid reason, not to be disputed, and belonging to the memory of events forming the first epoch of my life—and ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
862:You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
863:But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
864:Oh, outcast of all outcasts most abandoned! --to the earth art thou not forever dead? to its honors, to its flowers, to its golden aspirations? --and a cloud, dense, dismal, and limitless, does it not hang eternally between thy hopes and heaven? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
865:Who knoweth the mysteries of the will, with its vigor? For God is but a great will pervading all things by nature of its intentness. Man doth not yield him to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
866:That single thought is enough. The impulse increases to a wish, the wish to a desire, the desire to an uncontrollable longing, and the longing (to the deep regret and mortification of the speaker, and in defiance of all consequences,) is indulged. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
867:As for Republicanism, no analogy could be found for it upon the face of the earth—unless we except the case of the "prairie dogs," an exception which seems to demonstrate, if anything, that democracy is a very admirable form of government—for dogs. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
868:For many miles on either side of the river's oozy bed is a pale desert of gigantic water-lilies. They sigh one unto the other in that solitude, and stretch towards the heaven their long and ghastly necks, and nod to and fro their everlasting heads. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
869:Yes I now feel that it was then on that evening of sweet dreams- that the very first dawn of human love burst upon the icy night of my spirit. Since that period I have never seen nor heard your name without a shiver half of delight half of anxiety. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
870:Arms are around me, hands in my hair, lips moving across my cheek, over my neck, and I’m thinking about poetry, about Edgar Allan Poe and words that move like waves, people who move like waves together, and all the non-words we can make with our bodies. ~ Julie Cross,
871:But our love was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we Of many far wiser than we And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
872:There seemed a deep sense of life and joy about all; and although no airs blew from out the Heavens, yet everything had motion through the gentle sweepings to and fro of innumberable butterflies, that might have been mistaken for tullips with wings. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
873:(...) Sentia una gran impaciencia por hacer uso de mis ojos, pero no me atrevía. Tenía miedo de la primera mirada sobre las cosas que me rodeaban. No es que me aterrorizara contemplar cosas horribles, sino que me aterraba la idea de no ver nada (...) ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
874:upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, while I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.” [- Edgar Allan Poe] ~ C J Archer,
875:Fill with mingled cream and amber, I will drain that glass again. Such hilarious visions clamber Through the chamber of my brain — Quaintest thoughts — queerest fancies Come to life and fade away; What care I how time advances? I am drinking ale today. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
876:Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
877:Few persons can be made to believe that it is not quite an easy thing to invent a method of secret writing that shall baffle investigation. Yet it may be roundly asserted that human ingenuity cannot concoct a cipher which human ingenuity cannot resolve. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
878:Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore —
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
879:And travellers, now, within that valley, Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms, that move fantastically To a discordant melody, While, like a ghastly rapid river, Through the pale door A hideous throng rush out forever And laugh—but smile no more. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
880:La plupart des enfants quittent la maison paternelle à dix ou douze ans ; j’attendis jusqu’à seize. Et je ne crois pas que je l’aurais encore quittée, si je n’avais un jour entendu parler à ma vieille mère de m’établir à mon propre compte dans l’épicerie. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
881:Las realidades del mundo terrestre me afectaron como visiones, sólo como visiones, mientras las extrañas ideas del mundo de los sueños, por el contrario, se tornaron no en materia de mi existencia cotidiana, sino realmente en mi cínica y total existencia. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
882:No murmur arose from its bed, and so gently it wandered along, that the pearly pebbles upon which we loved to gaze, far down within its bosom, stirred not at all, but lay in a motionless content, each in its own old station, shining on gloriously forever. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
883:Not hear it? --yes, I hear it, and have heard it. Long --long --long --many minutes, many hours, many days, have I heard it --yet I dared not --oh, pity me, miserable wretch that I am! --I dared not --I dared not speak! We have put her living in the tomb! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
884:The very first detective fiction, written by Edgar Allan Poe, may have been set in Paris, but the book usually described as the first detective novel was Charles Warren Adams’s The Notting Hill Mystery, republished recently by the British Library. ~ Martin Edwards,
885:But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch's high estate; (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow Shall dawn upon him desolate!) And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed, Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
886:And travellers, now, within that valley, Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms, that move fantastically To a discordant melody, While, like a ghastly rapid river, Through the pale door A hideous throng rush out forever And laugh — but smile no more. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
887:There might be a class of beings, human once, but now to humanity invisible, for whose scrutiny, and for whose refined appreciation of the beautiful, more especially than for our own, had been set in order by God the great landscape-garden of the whole earth. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
888:an opinion of Usher's which I mention not so much on account of its novelty, (for other men * have thought thus,) as on account of the pertinacity with which he maintained it. This opinion, in its general form, was that of the sentience of all vegetable things. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
889:Cuando los hombres hablan de Belleza, no se refieren a una cualidad, como se supone, sino a un efecto: aluden, en definitiva, a esa intensa y pura elevación del alma -no del intelecto, o del corazón- y que se experimenta como consecuencia de contemplar <> ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
890:No event is so terribly well adapted to inspire the supremeness of bodily and of mental distress, as is burial before death… . What I have now to tell is of my own actual knowledge—of my own positive and personal experience. —Edgar Allan Poe, “The Premature Burial ~ Sanjay Gupta,
891:By a route obscure and lonely Haunted by ill angels only, Where an eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns upright, I have reached these lands but newly From an ultimate dim Thule -- From a wild, weird clime that lieth, sublime, Out of SPACE, out of TIME. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
892:If with thee be broken hearts,      Joy so peacefully departs,      That its echo still doth dwell,      Like the murmur in the shell.      Thou! thy truest type of grief      Is the gently falling leaf!      Thy framing is so holy      Sorrow is not melancholy. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
893:I heed not that my earthly lot
Hath - little of Earth in it -
That years of love have been forgot
In the hatred of a minute: -
I mourn not that the desolate
Are happier, sweet, than I,
But that you sorrow for my fate
Who am a passer by. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
894:If Pierre Bon-Bon had his failings--and what great man has not a thousand?--if Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, had his failings, they were failings of very little importance--faults indeed which, in other tempers, have often been looked upon rather in the light of virtues. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
895:If I venture to displace ... the microscopical speck of dust... on the point of my finger,... I have done a deed which shakes the Moon in her path, which causes the Sun to be no longer the Sun, and which alters forever the destiny of multitudinous myriads of stars. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
896:Out- out are the lights- out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, While the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, "Man," And its hero the Conqueror Worm. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
897:I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as the Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. Its sole arbiter is taste. With the intellect or with the conscience, it has only collateral relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with duty or with truth. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
898:Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it 'the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.' ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
899:In death - no! even in the grave all is not lost. Else there is no immortality for man. Arousing from the most profound slumbers, we break the gossamer web of some dream. Yet in a second afterward, (so frail may that web have been) we remember not that we have dreamed. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
900:It may be that those who care for poetry lost little by his death. Fluent in prose, he never wrote verse for the sake of making a poem. When a refrain of image haunted him, the lyric that resulted was the inspiration, as he himself said, of a passion, not of a purpose. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
901:The want of an international Copy-Right Law, by rendering it nearly impossible to obtain anything from the booksellers in the wayof remuneration for literary labor, has had the effect of forcing many of our very best writers into the service of the Magazines and Reviews. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
902:Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life,
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality, which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love- and all our own!
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
903:But our love was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we
Of many far wiser than we
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
904:Read this and thought of you: Through joy and through sorrow, I wrote. Through hunger and through thirst, I wrote. Through good report and through ill report, I wrote. Through sunshine and through moonshine, I wrote. What I wrote it is unnecessary to say. ~ Edgar Allen Poe ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
905:Thou wouldst be loved?—then let thy heart From its present pathway part not; Being everything which now thou art, Be nothing which thou art not. So with the world thy gentle ways, Thy grace, thy more than beauty, Shall be an endless theme of praise. And love a simple duty. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
906:Fill with mingled cream and amber
I will drain that glass again.
Such hilarious visions clamber
Through the chamber of my brain -
Quaintest thoughts - queerest fancies
Come to life and fade away;
What care I how time advances?
I am drinking ale today. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
907:If we examine a work of ordinary art, by means of a powerful microscope, all traces of resemblance to nature will disappear - but the closest scrutiny of the photogenic drawing discloses only a more absolute truth, a more perfect identity of aspect with the thing represented. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
908:Yet, the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet, the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
909:Coincidences, in general, are great stumbling blocks in the way of that class of thinkers who have been educated to know nothing of the theory of probabilities- that theory to which the most glorious objects of human research are indebted for the most glorious of illustration. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
910:Fill with mingled cream and amber,
I will drain that glass again.
Such hilarious visions clamber
Through the chamber of my brain —
Quaintest thoughts — queerest fancies
Come to life and fade away;
What care I how time advances?
I am drinking ale today. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
911:But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate;
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
912:Coincidences, in general, are great stumbling-blocks in the way of that class of thinkers who have been educated to know nothing of the theory of probabilities---that theory to which the most glorious objects of human research are indebted for the most glorious of illustration. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
913:Er is geen twijfel mogelijk dat mijn bewustzijn van de snelle groei van mijn bijgeloof (want waarom zou ik het niet zo noemen?) de groei alleen maar scheen te versnellen. Dat is, zoals ik al lange tijd weet, de paradoxale wet van alle gewaarwordingen die angst als basis hebben. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
914:When reason returned with the morning—when I had slept off the fumes of the night's debauch—I experienced a sentiment half of horror, half of remorse, for the crime of which I had been guilty; but it was, at best, a feeble and equivocal feeling, and the soul remained untouched. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
915:I never can hear a crowd of people singing and gesticulating, all together, at an Italian opera, without fancying myself at Athens, listening to that particular tragedy, by Sophocles, in which he introduces a full chorus of turkeys, who set about bewailing the death of Meleager. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
916:At length for my seared and writhing body there was no longer an inch of foothold on the firm floor of the prison. I struggled no more, but the agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long, and final scream of despair. I felt that I tottered upon the brink -- I averted my eyes -- ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
917:Cuando estaba por apoyar de nuevo la cabeza, sentí brillar en mi espíritu algo que no sabría definir mejor sino diciendo que era la mitad incompleta de la idea de libertad que ya he expuesto, y de la que sólo una parte, una sola mitad, vagamente, había flotado en mi espíritu (...) ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
918:Quelque maître malheureux à qui l’inexorable Fatalité a donné une chasse acharnée, toujours plus acharnée, jusqu’à ce que ses chants n’aient plus qu’un unique refrain, jusqu’à ce que les chants funèbres de son Espérance aient adopté ce mélancolique refrain : Jamais ! Jamais plus ! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
919:It is clear that a poem may be improperly brief. Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A very short poem, while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a profound or enduring, effect. There must be the steady pressing down of the stamp upon the wax. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
920:Un mare număr de hîrţoage şi de instrumente muzicale zăceau împrăştiate pe jos, fără să izbuteascăînsă a da viaţă decorului. Simţeam că respir o atmosferă încărcată de tristeţe. O jale adîncă, amară şi de nelecuit plutea în aerul acela care învăluia totul şi pătrundea pretutindeni. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
921:By a route obscure and lonely
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule --
From a wild, weird clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE, out of TIME. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
922:Philosophers have often held dispute As to the seat of thought in man and brute For that the power of thought attends the latter My friend, thy beau, hath made a settled matter, And spite of dogmas current in all ages, One settled fact is better than ten sages. (O,Tempora! O,Mores!) ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
923:That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
924:Out- out are the lights- out all! And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
925:All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel—although he neither saw nor heard—to feel the presence of my head within the room. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
926:¿Deseas que te amen?
Nunca pierdas, entonces,
el rumbo de tu corazón.
Sólo aquello que eres has de ser,
y aquello que simulas, jamás serás.
Así, en el mundo, tu modo sutil,
tu gracia, tu bellísimo ser,
serán objeto de elogio sin fin
y el amor un sencillo deber. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
927:The mass of the people regard as profound only him who suggests pungent contradictions of the general idea. In ratiocination, not less than in literature, it is the epigram which is the most immediately and the most universally appreciated. In both, it is of the lowest order of merit. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
928:The Valley of Unrest,’” she repeats. “It’s a poem by Edgar Allan Poe. ‘They had gone unto the wars, trusting to the mild-eyed stars, nightly, from their azure towers, to keep watch above the flowers’ . . . I like Poe. There’s something refreshing about a man who’s so unabashedly morose. ~ Dot Hutchison,
929:Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence– whether much that is glorious– whether all that is profound– does not spring from disease of thought– from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
930:From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone— ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
931:There are few persons, even among the calmest thinkers, who have not occasionally been startled into a vague yet thrilling half credence in the supernatural, by coincidences of so seemingly marvellous a character that, as mere coincidences, the intellect has been unable to receive them. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
932:Ceux qui revent eveilles ont conscience de 1000 choses qui echapent a ceux qui ne revent qu'endormis. The one who has day dream are aware of 1000 things that the one who dreams only when he sleeps will never understand. (it sounds better in french, I do what I can with my translation...) ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
933:I have not always been as now:
The fever'd diadem on my brow
I claim'd and won unsurprisingly-
Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
Rome to the Caeser-this is me?
The heritage of a kindly mind,
And a proud spirit which hath striven
Triumphantly with human kind. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
934:And so, being young and dipt in folly
I fell in love with melancholy,
And used to throw my earthly rest
And quiet all away in jest—
I could not love except where Death
Was mingling his with Beauty's breath—
Or Hymen, Time, and Destiny
Were stalking between her and me. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
935:And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh — but smile no more. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
936:No me aflige que mi cuota de mundo
tenga poco de terrenal en ella:
ni que años de amor, en un segundo
de rencor, se esfumen sin dejar huella.
No lamento que los desvalidos
sean, querida, más dichosos que yo,
pero sí que sufras por mi destino,
siendo pasajero como soy. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
937:From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
938:Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten golden notes, And all in tune What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens while she gloats On the moon! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
939:Her pallor I strangely mistrust:— Oh, hasten!—oh, let us not linger! Oh, fly!—let us fly!—for we must." In terror she spoke, letting sink her Wings till they trailed in the dust— In agony sobbed, letting sink her Plumes till they trailed in the dust— Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
940:Poe would certainly have applauded Walter Pater’s assertion that ‘all art continuously aspires to the condition of music’ – to that ideally abstract medium whose components are not distorted by material connotation, and are thus freed to create their own unique, transcendent relationships. It ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
941:Aside from being famous, what do Beethoven, Mark Rothko, Hemingway, Francis Ford Coppola, Van Gogh, Alvin Ailey, Robin Williams, Sylvia Plath, Balzac, Jackson Pollock, Edgar Allan Poe, Axl Rose, Mark Twain, and Virginia Woolf have in common? They all suffered from some form of mental illness. Even ~ B A Shapiro,
942:Ceux qui revent eveilles ont conscience de 1000 choses qui echapent a ceux qui ne revent qu'endormis.
The one who has day dream are aware of 1000 things that the one who dreams only when he sleeps will never understand.
(it sounds better in french, I do what I can with my translation...) ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
943:The mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate them only in their effects. We know of them, among other things, that they are always to their possessor, when inordinately possessed, a source of the liveliest enjoyment. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
944:There is then no analogy whatever between the operations of the Chess-Player, and those of the calculating machine of Mr. Babbage , and if we choose to call the former a pure machine we must be prepared to admit that it is, beyond all comparison, the most wonderful of the inventions of mankind. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
945:What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely a succession of brief ones—that is to say, of brief poetical effects. It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such only inasmuch as it intensely excites, by elevating the soul; and all intense excitements are, through a psychal necessity, brief. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
946:Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or silly action for no other reason than because he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgement, to violate that which is Law, merely because we understand it to be such? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
947:The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing At heart:—ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing! The sickness—the nausea— The pitiless pain— Have ceased, with the fever That maddened my brain— With the fever called "Living" That burned in my brain. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
948:I was especially fond of animals, and was indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent most of my time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing them.This peculiarity of character grew with my growth, I derived from it one of my principal sources of pleasure. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
949:Philosophers have often held dispute
As to the seat of thought in man and brute
For that the power of thought attends the latter
My friend, thy beau, hath made a settled matter,
And spite of dogmas current in all ages,
One settled fact is better than ten sages. (O,Tempora! O,Mores!) ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
950:¡Es la cosa más encantadora de la creación! —¿El qué? ¿El amanecer? —¡Qué disparate! ¡No! ¡El escarabajo! Es de un brillante color dorado, aproximadamente del tamaño de una nuez, con dos manchas de un negro azabache: una, cerca de la punta posterior, y la segunda, algo más alargada, en la otra punta. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
951:Y puesto que por persona entendemos una esencia inteligente dotada de razón, y el pensar siempre va acompañado por una conciencia, ella es la que nos hace ser eso que llamamos nosotros mismos, distinguiéndonos, en consecuencia, de los otros serés que piensan y confiriéndonos nuestra identidad personal. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
952:(...) Me vi obligado a incurrir en la insatisfactoria conclusión de que mientras hay, fuera de toda duda, combinaciones de simplísimos objetos naturales que tienen el poder de afectarnos así, el análisis de este poder se encuentra aún entre las consideraciones que están más allá de nuestro alcance (...) ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
953:Todas as coisas são boas ou más por comparação. A mais simples análise demonstrará que o prazer não é mais que o contraste da dor. O prazer positivo é uma ideia pura. Para se ser feliz até certo ponto é necessário ter-se sofrido até esse mesmo ponto. Não sofrer nunca, equivaleria a nunca ter sido feliz. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
954:...the traveler, travelling through it,
May not-dare not openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
955:A singularity apart from the others.
Another more beautiful singularity.
Found love between the two. Love that exceeds the capacity of comprehension.
But it just wasn't meant to last. Some times one just has to die for villains to come to light. And when they do, it's in a beautiful blaze of darkness. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
956:FOR the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not -- and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I would unburthen my soul. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
957:Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac Je suis plus savant que Balzac —Plus sage que Pibrac; Mon brass seul faisant l’attaque De la nation Coseaque, La mettroit au sac; De Charon je passerois le lac En dormant dans son bac, J’irois au fier Eac, Sans que mon coeur fit tic ni tac, Premmer du tabac. —French Vaudeville ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
958:Read this and thought of you:
Through joy and through sorrow, I wrote.
Through hunger and through thirst, I wrote.
Through good report and through ill report, I wrote.
Through sunshine and through moonshine, I wrote.
What I wrote it is unnecessary to say.
~ Edgar Allan Poe Edgar Allen Poe ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
959:To the right and left, as far as the eye could reach, there lay outstretched, like ramparts of the world, lines of horridly black and beetling cliff, whose character of gloom was but the more forcibly illustrated by the surf which reared high up against its white and ghastly crest, howling and shrieking forever. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
960:Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an axiom, which need only be properly put, to become self-evident. It is not excellence if it require to be demonstrated its such:—and thus to point out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to admit that they are not merits altogether. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
961:For many hours the immediate vicinity of the low framework upon which I lay had been literally swarming with rats. They were wild, bold, ravenous — their red eyes glaring upon me as if they waited but for motionless on my part to make me their prey. "To what food," I thought, "have they been accustomed in the well? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
962:The antique volume which I had taken up was the “Mad Trist” of Sir Launcelot Canning; but I had called it a favorite of Usher’s more in sad jest than in earnest; for, in truth, there is little in its uncouth and unimaginative prolixity which could have had interest for the lofty and spiritual ideality of my friend. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
963:They have not left me (as my hopes have) since;
They follow me- they lead me through the years.
They are my ministers- yet I their slave.
Their office is to illumine and enkindle-
My duty, to be saved by their bright light,
And purified in their electric fire,
And sanctified in their elysian fire. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
964:And by the shores of the river Zaire there is neither quiet nor silence. "It was night, and the rain fell; and falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall and the rain fell upon my head—and the lilies sighed one unto the other in the solemnity of their desolation. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
965:Ero costretto a limitarmi a una conclusione abbastanza insoddisfacente cioè, che certamente esistono combinazioni di oggetti semplicissimi, naturali fino alla banalità, che hanno il potere di impressionarci, ma che, nello stesso tempo, tale potere resta per noi non analizzabile, superiore al potere della nostra mente. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
966:The word "Verse" is used here as the term most convenient for expressing, and without pedantry, all that is involved in the consideration of rhythm, rhyme, meter, and versification... the subject is exceedingly simple; one tenth of it, possibly may be called ethical; nine tenths, however, appertains to the mathematics. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
967:He begged me not to be impatient—to moderate my transports—to read   soothing   books—to   drink   nothing   stronger   than Hock—and to bring the consolations of philosophy to my aid. The fool! if he could not come himself, why, in the name of every thing rational, could he not have enclosed me a letter of presentation? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
968:There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, and looking them piteously in the eyes — die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
969:...Alnına konsun bu öpüş!
Ve, şimdi senden ayrılırken,
İtiraf edeyim ki-
Günlerimi bir düş
Sayarken yanılmıyorsun;
Ama, umut gitmişse uzaklara
Bir gece ya da bir gün
Bir görüntüde ya da bir şeyde olmaksızın
Fark eder mi bu yüzden?
Bütün gördüğümüz ve göründüğümüz
Yalnızca bir düş içinde bir düş. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
970:And so it is with old HPL: the very model of an 18th century hipster, born decades too late to be one of the original louche laudanum-addicted romantic poets, and utterly unafraid to bore us by droning on and on about the essential crapness of culture since Edgar Allan Poe, the degeneracy of the modern age, &c. &c. &c. ~ Anonymous,
971:During the whole of the dull, dark and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country, and at length found myself as the shades of evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
972:There are two bodies — the rudimental and the complete; corresponding with the two conditions of the worm and the butterfly. What we call "death," is but the painful metamorphosis. Our present incarnation is progressive, preparatory, temporary. Our future is perfected, ultimate, immortal. The ultimate life is the full design ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
973:if passion it can properly be called, was of the most thoroughly romantic, shadowy, and imaginative character. It was born of the hour, and of the youthful necessity to love. It had no peculiar regard to the person, or to the character, or to the reciprocating affection... Any maiden, not immediately and positively repulsive, ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
974:There are two bodies - the rudimental and the complete; corresponding with the two conditions of the worm and the butterfly. What we call "death," is but the painful metamorphosis. Our present incarnation is progressive, preparatory, temporary. Our future is perfected, ultimate, immortal. The ultimate life is the full design. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
975:To F--S S. O--D
Thou wouldst be loved?- then let thy heart
From its present pathway part not!
Being everything which now thou art,
Be nothing which thou art not.
So with the world thy gentle ways,
Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
Shall be an endless theme of praise,
And love- a simple duty.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
976:Dark draperies hung upon the walls. The general furniture was profuse, comfortless, antique, and tattered. Many books and musical instruments lay scattered about, but failed to give any vitality to the scene. I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow. An air of stern, deep, and irredeemable gloom hung over and pervaded all. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
977:During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
978:For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
979:Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As if some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--Only this and nothing more. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
980:Borrow'D Plumes
[A Preface and a Piracy]
PROLOGUE
OF borrow’d plumes I take the sin,
My extracts will apply
To some few silly songs which in
These pages scatter’d lie.
The words are Edgar Allan Poe’s,
As any man may see,
But what a Poe-t wrote in prose,
Shall make blank verse for me.
~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,
981:Here the vast bed of waters, seamed and scarred into a thousand conflicting channels, burst suddenly into phrensied convulsion-heaving, boiling, hissing-gyrating in gigantic and innumerable vortices, and all whirling and plunging on to the eastward with a rapidity which water never elsewhere assumes except in precipitous descents. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
982:I have been happy, tho' [but] in a dream. I have been happy—and I love the theme: Dreams! in their vivid colouring of life As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife Of semblance with reality which brings To the delirious eye, more lovely things Of Paradise and Love—and all our own! Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
983:[E]very plot, worth the name, must be elaborated to its dénouement before anything be attempted with the pen. It is only with the dénouement constantly in view that we can plot its indispensable air of consequence, or causation, by making the incidents, and especially the tone at all points tend to the development of the intention. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
984:I might refer at once, if necessary, to a hundred well authenticated instances. One of very remarkable character, and of which the circumstances may be fresh in the memory of some of my readers, occurred, not very long ago, in the neighboring city of Baltimore, where it occasioned a painful, intense, and widely extended excitement. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
985:Tell a scoundrel, three or four times a day, that he is the pink of probity, and you make him at least the perfection of "respectability" in good earnest. On the other hand, accuse an honorable man, too petinaciously, of being a villain, and you fill him with a perverse ambition to show you that you are not altogether in the wrong. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
986:I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
987:I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
988:In the one instance, the dreamerloses sight of this object in a wilderness of deductions and suggestionsuntilhe finds the incitamentum, or first cause of his musings,... forgotten. In my case, the primary object was invariably frivolous, although assuming, through the medium of my distempered vision, a refracted and unreal importance. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
989:Thy soul shall find itself alone ’Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone— Not one, of all the crowd, to pry Into thine hour of secrecy. Be silent in that solitude, Which is not loneliness—for then The spirits of the dead who stood In life before thee are again In death around thee—and their will Shall overshadow thee: be still. [...] ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
990:...for the question is of will, and not, as the insanity of logic has assumed of power. It is not that the Deity cannot modify his laws, but that we insult him in imagining a possible necessity for modification. In their origin these laws were fashioned to embrace all contingencies which could lie in the future. With God all is Now. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
991:Oh, wär mein junges Leben doch ein Traum. Und würd doch mein Geist nicht wach, bis das der Strahl der Ewigkeit den Morgen brächte. Obwohl der Traum von schlimmen Kummer war, er war doch besser als die wirklichkeit des wachen Lebens für den, dessen herz gleich von Geburt an auf der Erde sein muss - Ein Chaos aus der tiefsten Leidenschaft. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
992:And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; — This it is, and nothing more. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
993:No more than any other talent, is that for music susceptible of complete enjoyment where there is no second party to appreciate its exercise; and it is only in common with other talents that it produces effects which may be fully enjoyed in solitude... the higher order of music is the most thoroughly estimated when we are exclusively alone. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
994:Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door
Only this and nothing more. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
995:The enormous multiplication of books in every branch of knowledge is one of the greatest evils of this age, since it presents one of the most serious obstacles to the acquisition of correct information by throwing in the reader's way piles of lumber in which he must painfully grope for the scraps of useful matter, peradventure interspersed. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
996:There are things around us and about, of which I can render no distinct account--Things material and spiritual; heaviness in the atmosphere; a sense of suffocation, anxiety, and above all, that terrible state of existence which the nervous experience when the senses are keenly living and awake and meanwhile the powers of thought lie dormant. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
997:Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!— prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us— by that God we both adore— Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
998:And thus, as a closer and still closer intimacy admitted me more unreservedly into recesses if his spirit, the more bitterly did I perceive the futility of all attempt at cheering a mind from which darkness, as if an inherent positive quality, poured forth upon all objects of the moral and physical universe in one unceasing radiation of gloom. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
999:Ci i owi bez wątpienia pomyślą, że mój rozum, tracący równowagę pod wpływem błahostek, był poniekąd pokrewny owej skale morskiej, o której Ptolemeusz Hefestion opowiada, że opierała się niewzruszenie wszelkim napaściom ludzkim i straszliwszym jeszcze wściekłościom wałów wodnych i wichrów, a drżała jedynie pod dotykiem kwiecia zwanego asfodelą. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1000:This apartment, which you no doubt profanely suppose to be the shop of Will Wimble the undertaker --a man whom we know not, and whose plebeian appellation has never before this night thwarted our royal ears --this apartment, I say, is the Dais-Chamber of our Palace, devoted to the councils of our kingdom, and to other sacred and lofty purposes. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1001:I have been happy, tho’ in a dream.
I have been happy—and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid colouring of life
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love—and all our own!
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1002:Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore- Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1003:Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1004:Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore. “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore— Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1005:And the Raven, never flitting, Still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas Just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming Of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming Throws his shadow on the floor, And my soul from out that shadow, That lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted - nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1006:They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their grey visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in awaking, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which i of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1007:To look at a star by glances - to view it in a side-long way, by turning toward it the exterior portions of the retina (more susceptible of feeble impressions of light than the interior), is to behold the star distinctly - is to have the best appreciation of its lustre - a lustre which grows dim just in proportion as we turn our vision fully upon it. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1008:Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in waking, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1009:1. From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still
From the torrent or the fountain
From the red cliff of the mountain
My heart to joy at the same tone....
And all I loved,
I Loved Alone...

২. একজন শিক্ষিত মানুষ দিয়ে কী হয় ? কিন্তু একশজন খাঁটি মানুষ দিয়ে একটা দেশ পাল্টে দেয়া যায় । - ড.মুহম্মদ জাফর ইকবাল স্যার ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1010:Considerînd deci Frumuseţea ca fiind domeniul meu, următoarea mea grijă se referea la tonul manifestării sale supreme, iar toată experienţa mea arată că acest ton este cel al tristeţii. Frumuseţea de orice fel, în forma ei supremă, tulbură întotdeauna sufletul sensibil pînă la lacrimi. Melancolia este deci cel mai legitim dintre toate tonurile poetice. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1011:Literature is the most noble of professions. In fact, it is about the only one fit for a man. For my own part, there is no seducing me from the path. I shall be a litterateur, at least, all my life; nor would I abandon the hopes which still lead me on for all the gold in California.”

EDGAR ALLAN POE TO FREDERICK WILLIAM THOMAS
FEBRUARY 14, 1849 ~ Andrew Barger,
1012:Al despertar de repente de la larga noche de lo que parecía, sin serlo, la no-existencia, a regiones de hadas, a un palacio de imaginación, a los extraños dominios del pensamiento y de la erudición monásticos, no es extraño que mirase a mi alrededor con ojos asombrados y ardientes, que malgastara mi niñez entre libros y disipara mi juventud en ensueños. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1013:And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door —
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; —
This it is, and nothing more. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1014:For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the sounding sea. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1015:Iz ovoga razloga je muzičko obrazovanje najhitnije; jer ono uzrokuje da ritam i harmonija proniknu u samu unutrašnjost duše, ščepavši je pod svoju vlast, ispunjavajući je ljepotom i čineći čovjekove misli uzvišenim... On će hvaliti i uživati u lijepom; primat će je sa radošću u svoju dušu, braneći se njome i poistovećivat će svoje vlastito stanje sa njom. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1016:One morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree; — hung it with the tears streaming from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse at my heart; — hung it because I knew that it had loved me, and because I felt it had given me no reason of offence; — hung it because I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1017:There are surely other worlds than this - other thoughts than the thoughts of the multitude - other speculations than the speculations of the sophist. Who then shall call thy conduct into question? who blame thee for thy visionary hours, or denounce those occupations as a wasting away of life, which were but the overflowings of thine everlasting energies? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1018:There was a discordant hum of human voices! There was a loud blast as of many trumpets! There was a harsh grating as of a thousand thunders! The fiery walls rushed back! An outstretched arm caught my own as I fell, fainting, into the abyss. It was that of General Lasalle. The French army had entered Toledo. The Inquisition was in the hands of its enemies. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1019:but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence--whether much that is glorious--whether all that is profound--does not spring from disease of thought--from 'moods' of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of man things which escape those who dream only by night. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1020:And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? --now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1021:For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1022:Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" — Merely this, and nothing more ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1023:In beauty of face no maiden ever equaled her. It was the radiance of an opium-dream - and airy and spirit-lifting vision more wildly divine than the phantasies which hovered about the slumbering souls of the daughters of Delos. Yet her features were not of that regular mould which we have been falsely taught to worship in the classical labors of the heathen. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1024:After reading all that has been written, and after thinking all that can be thought, on the topics of God and the soul, the man who has a right to say that he thinks at all, will find himself face to face with the conclusion that, on these topics, the most profound thought is that which can be the least easily distinguished from the most superficial sentiment. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1025:And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-
This it is, and nothing more. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1026:Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,  Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,  While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,  As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.  "'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—                           Only this, and nothing more. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1027:Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore —
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1028:Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee-- Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" Quothe the Raven, "Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1029:Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1030:And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor:
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted — nevermore! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1031:If Edgar Allan Poe were alive today, his agent would be constantly slapping him upside the head with tightly rolled copies of his brilliant short stories and novelettes, yelling, 'Full-length novels, you moron! Pay attention! What's the matter with you -- are you shooting heroin or something? Write for the market! No more of this midlength 'Fall of the House of Usher' crap ~ Dean Koontz,
1032:There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives, amused themselves in retracing the steps by which particular conclusions of their own minds have been attained. The occupation is often full of interest and he who attempts it for the first time is astonished by the apparently illimitable distance and incoherence between the starting-point and the goal. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1033:But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’
Then the bird said, 'Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1034:Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" —
Merely this, and nothing more ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1035:There may be a class of beings, human once, but now invisible to humanity, to whom, from afar, our disorder may seem order—our unpicturesqueness picturesque, in a word, the earth-angels, for whose scrutiny more especially than our own, and for whose death—refined appreciation of the beautiful, may have been set in array by God the wide landscape-gardens of the hemispheres. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1036:Thy soul shall find itself alone
’Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone—
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness—for then
The spirits of the dead who stood
In life before thee are again
In death around thee—and their will
Shall overshadow thee: be still. [...] ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1037:Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1038:I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1039:Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee--
Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quothe the Raven, "Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1040:It is the desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the Beauty before us – but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired by an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we struggle, by multiform combinations among the things and thoughts of Time, to attain a portion of that Loveliness whose very elements, perhaps, appertain to eternity alone. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1041:Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere -
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year -
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber -
(Though once we had journeyed down here) -
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1042:TRUE!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses—not destroyed—not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1043:Books are almost as individual as friends. There is no earthly use in laying down general laws about them. Some meet the needs of one person, and some of another; and each person should beware of the booklover’s besetting sin, of what Mr. Edgar Allan Poe calls ‘the mad pride of intellectuality,’ taking the shape of arrogant pity for the man who does not like the same kind of books. ~ Theodore Roosevelt,
1044:Books are almost as individual as friends. There is no earthly use in laying down general laws about them. Some meet the needs of one person, and some of another; and each person should beware of the booklover’s besetting sin, of what Mr. Edgar Allan Poe calls ‘the mad pride of intellectuality’, taking the shape of arrogant pity for the man who does not like the same kind of books. ~ Theodore Roosevelt,
1045:It is more than probable that I am not understood; but I fear, indeed, that it is in no manner possible to convey to the mind of the merely general reader, an adequate idea of that nervous intensity of interest with which, in my case, the powers of meditation (not to speak technically) busied and buried themselves, in the contemplation of even the most ordinary objects of the universe. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1046:The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that ’round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1047:We are surely doomed to hover continually upon the brink of Eternity, without taking the final plunge into the abyss. From billows a thousand times more stupendous than any I have ever seen, we glide away with the facility of the arrowy seagull; and the colossal waters rear their heads above us like demons of the deep, but like demons confined to simple threats and forbidden to destroy. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1048:By the grey woods, by the swamp, where the toad and newt encamp, by the dismal tarns and pools, where dwell the Gouls. By each spot the most unholy, by each nook most melancholy, there the traveller meets, aghast, sheeted memories of the Past. Shrouded forms that start and sigh, as they pass the wanderer by. White-robed forms of friends long given; In agony, to the Earth - and Heaven. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1049:To those who have cherished an affection for a faithful and sagacious dog, I need hardly be at the trouble of explaining the nature or the intensity of the gratification thus derivable. There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1050:TRUE! – nervous – very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses – not destroyed – not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily – how calmly I can tell you the whole story. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1051:By late accounts from Rotterdam, that city seems to be in a high state of philosophical excitement. Indeed, phenomena have there occurred of a nature so completely unexpected--so entirely novel--so utterly at variance with preconceived opinions--as to leave no doubt on my mind that long ere this all Europe is in an uproar, all physics in a ferment, all reason and astronomy together by the ears. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1052:Da kam noch einmal – ein einziges Mal – durch das Schweigen der Nacht das süße Seufzen wieder zu mir, und es formte sich zu einer wohlbekannten, inbrünstigen Stimme: »Schlafe in Frieden! Denn der Geist der Liebe lebt und herrscht. Und wenn du glühenden Herzens Ermengard umarmst, bist du – aus Gründen, die dir dereinst im Himmel geoffenbart werden sollen – deines Gelübdes an Eleonora entbunden.« ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1053:Ser enterrado vivo es, sin ningún género de duda, el más terrorífico extremo que jamás haya caído en suerte a un simple mortal. Que le ha caído en suerte con frecuencia, con mucha frecuencia, nadie con capacidad de juicio lo negará. Los límites que separan la vida de la muerte son, en el mejor de los casos, borrosos e indefinidos... ¿Quién podría decir dónde termina uno y dónde empieza el otro? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1054:Les savants employèrent alors toute leur intelligence, - toute leur âme, - non point à alléger la crainte, non plus soutenir quelque théorie favorite. Oh ! ils cherchèrent la vérité, rien que la vérité, - ils s'épuisèrent à la chercher ! Ils appèlerent à grands cris la science parfaite ! La vérité se leva dans la pureté de sa force et de son excessive majesté, et les sages s'inclèrent et adorèrent. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1055:For centuries, no man, in verse has ever done, or ever seemed to think of doing, an original thing. The fact is that originality (unless in minds of very unusual force) is by no means a matter, as some suppose, of impulse or intuition. In general, to be found, it must be elaborately sought and, although a positive merit of the highest class, demands in its attainment less of invention than negation. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1056:To -The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
The wantonest singing birds,
Are lips- and all thy melody
Of lip-begotten wordsThine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined,
Then desolately fall,
O God! on my funereal mind
Like starlight on a pallThy heart- thy heart!- I wake and sigh,
And sleep to dream till day
Of the truth that gold can never buyOf the baubles that it may.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1057:I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?”
― A Dream Within a Dream ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1058:True!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am;
but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened
my senses—not destroyed—not dulled them. Above all was the
sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the
earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken!
and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole
story. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1059:tand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?”

- A Dream Within a Dream ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1060:Edgar Allan Poe once called the death of a beautiful woman “the most poetical topic in the world” and I’ve often found myself wondering how many woman writers who have killed themselves or let themselves be otherwise obliterated were trying, somehow, to fulfill this most popular of narratives. We’re most valuable when we’re smiling, dead, posing, our words hanging on the page with no real body behind them. I’m ~ Jessica Valenti,
1061:I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

― A Dream Within a Dream. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1062:Y de este modo, a medida que una intimidad cada vez más estrecha me introducía con menor reserva en las profundidades de su espíritu, con mayor amargura yo advertía la inutilidad de toda tentativa para alegrar a un espíritu del cual las tinieblas, como si fueran una cualidad inherente y positiva en él, se derramaban sobre todos los objetos del universo físico y moral, en una irradiación incesante de melancolía ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1063:(...) El desenfreno de aquella mascarada no tenía fronteras, sin embargo, la figura en cuestión lo traspasaba e iba incluso más allá de lo que el liberal criterio del príncipe toleraba. En el corazón de los más temerarios hay cuerdas que no pueden tocarse sin emoción. Hasta el más relajado de los seres, para quien la vida y la muerte son igualmente un juego, sabe que hay cosas que no se prestan para jugar (...) ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1064:Es baidos no nākotnes, pareizāk sakot, - no tā, ko tā nesīs. Nodrebu, domādams, ka ikviens, pat visnenozīmīgākais notikums var manas dvēseles satraukumu vērst neizturamu. Īstenībā es nebaidos no briesmām, bet no šausmām, ko tās izraisa. Savā nožēlojamā, drosmi paralizējošā stāvoklī jūtu, ka agrāk vai vēlāk pienāks diena, kad cīņā ar nepielūdzamo rēgu- BAILĒM, būs jāatsakās ne vien no dzīves, bet arī no saprāta. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1065:I have said that the sole effect of my somewhat childish experiment—that of looking down within the tarn—had been to deepen the first singular impression. There can be no doubt that the consciousness of the rapid increase of my superstition—for why should I not so term it?—served mainly to accelerate the increase itself. Such, I have long known, is the paradoxical law of all sentiments having terror as a basis. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1066:in general, from the violation of a few simple laws of humanity arises the wretchedness of mankind - that as a species we have in our possession the as yet unwroght elements of content - and that, even now, in the present darkness and madness of all thought on the great question of social condition, it is not impossible that man, the individual, under certain unusual and highly fortuitous conditions, my be happy ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1067:And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revelers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1068:the outlines of his figure were indistinct—but his features were the features of a deity; for the mantle of the night, and of the mist, and of the moon, and of the dew, had left uncovered the features of his face. And his brow was lofty with thought, and his eye wild with care; and, in the few furrows upon his cheek I read the fables of sorrow, and weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1069:She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee. And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and wedded the painter. He, passionate, studious, austere, and having already a bride in his Art; she a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee; all light and smiles, and frolicsome as the young fawn; loving and cherishing all things; hating only the Art which was her rival; ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1070:This next tale is about a mesmerist who puts a man in a suspended hypnotic state at the moment of death. An example of a tale of suspense and horror, it is also, to a certain degree, a hoax as it was published without claiming to be fictional, and many at the time of publication (1845) took it to be a factual account. Poe toyed with this for a while before admitting it was a work of pure fiction in his “Marginalia”. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1071:What chance — what one event brought this evil thing to pass, bear with me while I relate. Death approaches; and the shadow which foreruns him has thrown a softening influence over my spirit. I long, in passing through the dim valley, for the sympathy — I had nearly said for the pity — of my fellow men. I would fain have them believe that I have been, in some measure, the slave of circumstances beyond human control. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1072:The moaning and groaning,             The sighing and sobbing,         Are quieted now,             With that horrible throbbing         At heart:—ah, that horrible,             Horrible throbbing!         The sickness—the nausea—             The pitiless pain—         Have ceased, with the fever             That maddened my brain—         With the fever called “Living”             That burned in my brain.         And ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1073:Epigram For Wall Street
I'll tell you a plan for gaining wealth,
Better than banking, trade or leases —
Take a bank note and fold it up,
And then you will find your money in creases!
This wonderful plan, without danger or loss,
Keeps your cash in your hands, where nothing can trouble it;
And every time that you fold it across,
'Tis as plain as the light of the day that you double it!
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1074:The tribe of clerks was an obvious one...the junior clerks of flash houses--young gentlemen with tight coats, bright boots, well-oiled hair, and supercilious lips. Setting aside a certain dapperness of carriage, which may be termed [i]deskism[/i] for want of a better word, the manner of these persons seemed to be an exact fac-simile of what had been the perfection of [i]bon ton[/i] about twelve or eighteen months before. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1075:And I lie so composedly, Now in my bed (Knowing her love) That you fancy me dead— And I rest so contentedly, Now in my bed, (With her love at my breast) That you fancy me dead— That you shudder to look at me. Thinking me dead. But my heart it is brighter Than all of the many Stars in the sky, For it sparkles with Annie— It glows with the light Of the love of my Annie— With the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1076:And thus when by Poetry, or when by Music, the most entrancing of the poetic moods, we find ourselves melted into tears, we weep then, not... through excess of pleasure, but through a certain petulant, impatient sorrow at our inability to grasp now, wholly, here on earth, at once and forever, those divine and raptorous joys of which through the poem, or through the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate glimpses. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1077:Bu acılarla dolu dünya bazen en mantıklı bakışla bile bir cehennem gibi görünür. Ama insanın hayal gücü Carathis değildir ki, bu cehennemin tünellerinde cezalandırılmadan gezebilsin. Mezara ilişkin sayısız iç karartıcı korkuların hepsine de hayali olarak bakamayız ne yazık ki. Ama, tıpkı Afrasiab'a Oxus'a yaptığı yolculukta eşlik eden iblisler gibi, uyumaları gerekir - yoksa bizi yerler. Onlar uyumalıdır, yoksa biz ölürüz. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1078:I am excessively slothful, and wonderfully industrious-by fits. There are epochs when any kind of mental exercise is torture, and when nothing yields me pleasure but the solitary communion with the 'mountains & the woods'-the 'altars' of Byron. I have thus rambled and dreamed away whole months, and awake, at last, to a sort of mania for composition. Then I scribble all day, and read all night, so long as the disease endures. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1079:If any ambitious man have a fancy to revolutionize, at one effort, the universal world of human thought, human opinion, and human sentiment, the opportunity is his own -- the road to immortal renown lies straight, open, and unencumbered before him. All that he has to do is to write and publish a very little book. Its title should be simple -- a few plain words -- My Heart Laid Bare. But -- this little book must be true to its title. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1080:Il y eut un moment, par exemple, où M. Gliddon, ne pouvant pas faire comprendre à l'Egyptien le mot : la Politique, s'avisa heureusement de dessiner sur le mur, avec un morceau de charbon, un petit monsieur au nez bourgeonné, aux coudes troussés, grimpé sur un piedestal, la jambe gauche tendue en arrière, le bras droit projeté en avant, le poing fermé, les yeux convulsés vers le ciel, et la bouche ouverte sous un angle de 90 degrés. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1081:An Acrostic
Elizabeth it is in vain you say
'Love not' — thou sayest it in so sweet a way:
In vain those words from thee or L. E. L.
Zantippe's talents had enforced so well:
Ah! if that language from thy heart arise,
Breathe it less gently forth — and veil thine eyes.
Endymion, recollect, when Luna tried
To cure his love — was cured of all beside —
His folly — pride — and passion — for he died.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1082:Just as the Intellect concerns itself with Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful while the Moral Sense is regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the obligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself with displaying the charms: — waging war upon Vice solely on the ground of her deformity — her disproportion — her animosity to the fitting, to the appropriate, to the harmonious — in a word, to Beauty. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1083:– a narrative, let me here say, which, in its latter portions, will be found to include incidents of a nature so entirely out of the range of human experience, and for this reason so far beyond the limits of human credulity, that I proceed in utter hopelessness of obtaining credence for all that I shall tell, yet confidently trusting in time and progressing science to verify some of the most important and most improbable of my statements. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1084:La mayoría de las personas no tienen tantos recelos ante lo sobrenatural como les gusta creer a los novelistas. La mayor parte de los escritores que se ocupan de ese tema, en realidad, son mas escépticos respecto de los espíritus, los demonios y los espantapájaros de lo que suele serlo el hombre de la calle.
Lovecraft era ateo. Edgar Allan Poe, un trascendentalista bastante ignorante. Y la religión de Hawthorne no era mas que convencional. ~ Stephen King,
1085:About noon, as nearly as we could guess, our attention was again arrested by the appearance of the sun. It gave out no light, properly so called, but a dull and sudden glow without reflection, as if all its rays were polarized. Just before sinking within the turgid sea, its central fires suddenly went out, as if hurriedly extinguished by some unaccountable power. It was a dim, silver-like rim, alone, as it rushed down the unfathomable ocean. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1086:I have no words—alas!—to tell         The loveliness of loving well!         Nor would I how attempt to trace         The more than beauty of a face         Whose lineaments, upon my mind,         Are shadows on th’ unstable wind:         Thus I remember having dwelt             Some page of early lore upon,         With loitering eye, till I have felt         The letters—with their meaning—melt             To fantasies with none.         O, ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1087:Hymn
At morn- at noon- at twilight dimMaria! thou hast heard my hymn!
In joy and woe- in good and illMother of God, be with me still!
When the hours flew brightly by,
And not a cloud obscured the sky,
My soul, lest it should truant be,
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee;
Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast
Darkly my Present and my Past,
Let my Future radiant shine
With sweet hopes of thee and thine!
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1088:During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was - but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1089:There are moments when, even to the sober eye of Reason, the world of our sad Humanity may assume the semblance of a Hell-but the imagination of man is no Carathis, to explore with impunity its every cavern. Alas! the grim sepulchral terrors cannot be regarded as altogether fanciful-but, like the Demons in whose company Afrasiab made his voyage down the Oxus, they must sleep, or they will devour us-they must be suffered to slumber, or we perish. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1090:The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the "Red Death. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1091:Hear the sledges with the bells, Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night, While the stars that oversprinkle All the Heavens seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight: Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- From the jingling and the tingling of the bells. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1092:Hymn

At morn- at noon- at twilight dim-
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
In joy and woe- in good and ill-
Mother of God, be with me still!
When the hours flew brightly by,
And not a cloud obscured the sky,
My soul, lest it should truant be,
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee;
Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast
Darkly my Present and my Past,
Let my Future radiant shine
With sweet hopes of thee and thine! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1093:The history of all Magazines shows plainly that those which have attained celebrity were indebted for it to articles similar in natureto Berenice--although, I grant you, far superior in style and execution. I say similar in nature. You ask me in what does this nature consist? In the ludicrous heightened into the grotesque: the fearful coloured into the horrible: the witty exaggerated into the burlesque: the singular wrought out into the strange and mystical. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1094:I believe, indeed, that what I could not refrain from saying to him on this head had the effect of inducing him to push on. While, therefore, I cannot but lament the most unfortunate and bloody events which immediately arose from my advice, I must still be allowed to feel some degree of gratification at having been instrumental, however remotely, in opening to the eye of science one of the most intensely exciting secrets which has ever engrossed its attention. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1095:Immensely tall trunks of trees, gray and leafless, rose up in endless succession as far as the eye could reach. Their roots were concealed in wide-spreading morasses, whose dreary water lay intensely black, still, and altogether terrible, beneath. And the strange trees seemed endowed with a human vitality, and waving to and fro their skeleton arms, were crying to the silent waters for mercy, in the shrill and piercing accents of the most acute agony and despair. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1096:And oh! of all tortures             That torture the worst         Has abated—the terrible             Torture of thirst         For the naphthaline river             Of Passion accurst:         I have drank of a water             That quenches all thirst:—         Of a water that flows,             With a lullaby sound,         From a spring but a very few             Feet under ground—         From a cavern not very far             Down under ground.         And ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1097:He impaired his vision by holding the object too close. He might see, perhaps, one or two points with unusual clearness, but in so doing he, necessarily, lost sight of the matter as a whole. Thus there is such a thing as being too profound. Truth is not always in a well. In fact, as regards the more important knowledge, I do believe that she is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where she is found. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1098:Osećanje, za koje nemam imena, obuzelo mi je dušu – osećanje koje se opire analizi, kojem su znanja iz davnih vremena neprimerena, i za koje mi, zebem, ni sama budućnost neće pruţiti kljuĉ. Za duhovni sklop kao što je moj, kobno je ovo drugo saznanje. Neću nikad – znao sam da neću nikad – dokuĉiti prirodu tih svojih misli. Ipak, nije sasvim ĉud-no što su ove moje misli neodreĊene, jer potiĉu iz sasvim novih izvora. Novi osećaj – ne-ka nova suština – uvećali su mi dušu ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1099:We now demand the light artillery of the intellect; we need the curt, the condensed, the pointed, the readily diffused - in place of the verbose, the detailed, the voluminous, the inaccessible. On the other hand, the lightness of the artillery should not degenerate into pop-gunnery - by which term we may designate the character of the greater portion of the newspaper press - their sole legitimate object being the discussion of ephemeral matters in an ephemeral manner. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1100:Nelaimei ir daudz seju. Ļaužu izmisumam ir daudzi veidi. Līdzīgi varavīksnei, tas liecas pāri plašajam apvārsnim, un tā veidi ir tikpat dažādi kā šī loka krāsas- tikpat izšķirīgas un tomēr saplūdušas vienotā mirdzumā. Liecas pāri plašajam apvārsnim kā varavīksne! Kā gan varēja gadīties, ka es minēju skaisto, lai izskaidrotu pretīgo, izvēlējos miera vēstnesi par salīdzinājumu postam.? Bet, tāpat kā ētiskos secinājumos ļaunums ir labā sekas, tā arī no prieka dzimst bēdas. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1101:A change fell upon all things. Strange brilliant flowers, star-shaped, burst out upon the trees where no flowers had been before. The tints of the green carpet deepened; and when, one by one, the white daisies shrank away, there sprang up, in place of them, ten by ten of the ruby-red asphodel. And life arose in our paths; for the tall flamingo hitherto unseen, with all gay glowing birds, flaunted his scarlet plumage before us. The golden and silver fish haunted the river. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1102:Hay momentos en que, incluso para el sereno ojo de la razón, el mundo de nuestra triste humanidad puede parecer el infierno, pero la imaginación del hombre no es Caratis para explorar con impunidad todas sus cavernas. ¡Ay!, la torva legión de los terrores sepulcrales no se puede considerar como completamente imaginaria, pero los demonios, en cuya compañía Afrasiab hizo su viaje por el Oxus, tienen que dormir o nos devorarán…, hay que permitirles que duerman, o pereceremos. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1103:To F-Beloved! amid the earnest woes
That crowd around my earthly path(Drear path, alas! where grows
Not even one lonely rose)My soul at least a solace hath
In dreams of thee, and therein knows
An Eden of bland repose.
And thus thy memory is to me
Like some enchanted far-off isle
In some tumultuous seaSome ocean throbbing far and free
With storms- but where meanwhile
Serenest skies continually
Just o'er that one bright island smile.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1104:...A change fell upon all things. Strange brilliant flowers, star-shaped, burst out upon the trees where no flowers had been before. The tints of the green carpet deepened; and when, one by one, the white daisies shrank away, there sprang up, in place of them, ten by ten of the ruby-red asphodel. And life arose in our paths; for the tall flamingo hitherto unseen, with all gay glowing birds, flaunted his scarlet plumage before us. The golden and silver fish haunted the river... ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1105:To Helen Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome. Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand, Ah! Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1106:(...) Las palabras no alcanzan para dar una idea de la feroz resistencia que opuso a la Sombra. Gemí de angustia ante el lamentable espectáculo. Yo hubiera querido calmar, hubiera querido razonar; pero en la intensidad de su salvaje deseo de vivir -vivir, sólo vivir- todo consuelo y toda razón habrían sido el colmo de la locura. Sin embargo, hasta el último momento, en las convulciones más violentas de su espíritu indómito, no se conmivió la placidez exterior de su actitud (...) ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1107:I was forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory conclusion, that while, beyond doubt, there are combinations of very simple natural objects which have the power of thus affecting us, still the analysis of this power lies among considerations beyond our depth. It was possible, I reflected, that a mere different arrangement of the particulars of the scene, of the details of the picture, would be sufficient to modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for sorrowful impression. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1108:To The River -Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
Of crystal, wandering water,
Thou art an emblem of the glow
Of beauty- the unhidden heartThe playful maziness of art
In old Alberto's daughter;
But when within thy wave she looksWhich glistens then, and tremblesWhy, then, the prettiest of brooks
Her worshipper resembles;
For in his heart, as in thy stream,
Her image deeply liesHis heart which trembles at the beam
Of her soul-searching eyes.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1109:You hear a lot about the benefits of insanity or whatever - like, Dr. Karen Singh had once told me this Edgar Allan Poe quote: "The question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence." I guess she was trying to make me feel better, but I find mental disorders to be vastly overrated. Madness, in my admittedly limited experience, is accompanied by no superpowers; being mentally unwell doesn't make you loftily intelligent any more than having the flu does. ~ John Green,
1110:Há momentos em que, mesmo aos olhos serenos da razão, o mundo de nossa triste Humanidade pode assumir o aspecto de um inferno, mas a imaginação do homem não é Carathis para explorar impunemente todas as suas cavernas. Ah! A horrenda região dos
terrores sepulcrais não pode ser olhada de modo tão completamente fantástico, mas, como os Demônios em cuja companhia Afrasiab fez sua viagem até o Oxus, eles devem dormir ou nos devorarão, devem ser mergulhados no sono ou nós pereceremos. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1111:TEKELI-LI. Tekeli-li, Tekeli-li. I got that from Pym. I got that from Poe. The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket by Edgar Allan Poe, specifically. Pym that is maddening, Pym that is brilliance, Pym whose failures entice instead of repel. Pym that flows and ignites and Pym that becomes so entrenched it stagnates for hundreds of words at a time. A book that at points makes no sense, gets wrong both history and science, and yet stumbles into an emotional truth greater than both. ~ Mat Johnson,
1112:While I was busied in reflection, my eyes fell upon a narrow ledge in the eastern face of the rock, perhaps a yard below the summit upon which I stood. This ledge projected about eighteen inches, and was not more than a foot wide, while a niche in the cliff just above it, gave it a rude resemblance to one of the hollow-backed chairs used by our ancestors. I made no doubt that here was the 'devil's seat' alluded to in the MS., and now I seemed to grasp the full secret of the riddle. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1113:They heard! --they suspected! --they knew! --they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder! louder! louder! louder! "Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks! here, here! --It is the beating of his hideous heart! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1114:The Divine Right Of Kings
The only king by right divine
Is Ellen King, and were she mine
I'd strive for liberty no more,
But hug the glorious chains I wore.
Her bosom is an ivory throne,
Where tyrant virtue reigns alone ;
No subject vice dare interfere,
To check the power that governs here.
O! would she deign to rule my fate,
I'd worship Kings and kingly state,
And hold this maxim all life long,
The King — my King — can do no wrong.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1115:Oh, lady bright! can it be right-
The window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice drop -
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully - so fearfully -
Above the closed and fringéd lid
'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
That, o'er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1116:There is not a more disgusting spectacle under the sun than our subserviency to British criticism. It is disgusting, first, because it is truckling, servile, pusillanimous--secondly, because of its gross irrationality. We know the British to bear us little but ill will--we know that, in no case do they utter unbiased opinions of American books . . . we know all this, and yet, day after day, submit our necks to the degrading yoke of the crudest opinion that emanates from the fatherland. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1117:The principle being discovered by which a machine can be made to play a game of chess, an extension of the same principle would enable it to win a game—a farther extension would enable it to win all games—that is, to beat any possible game of an antagonist. A little consideration will convince any one that the difficulty of making a machine beat all games, Is not in the least degree greater, as regards the principle of the operations necessary, than that of making it beat a single game. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1118:Very suddenly there came back to my soul motion and sound—the tumultuous motion of the heart, and, in my ears, the sound of its beating. Then a pause in which all is blank. Then again sound, and motion, and touch—a tingling sensation pervading my frame. Then the mere consciousness of existence, without thought—a condition which lasted long. Then, very suddenly, thought, and shuddering terror, and earnest endeavor to comprehend my true state. Then a strong desire to lapse into insensibility. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1119:I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief --oh, no! --it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1120:For a while, every smart and shy eccentric from Bobby Fischer to Bill Gates was hastily fitted with this label, and many were more or less believably retrofitted, including Isaac Newton, Edgar Allan Poe, Michelangelo, and Virginia Woolf. Newton had great trouble forming friendships and probably remained celibate. In Poe’s poem Alone he wrote that “all I lov’d—I lov’d alone.” Michelangelo is said to have written, “I have no friends of any sort and I don’t want any.” Woolf killed herself. Asperger ~ Michael Finkel,
1121:There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, and looking them piteously in the eyes - die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed. Now and then, alas, the conscience of man takes up a burden so heavy in horror that it can be thrown down only into the grave. And thus the essence of all crime is undivulged. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1122:Shadows of Shadows passing... It is now 1831... and as always, I am absorbed with a delicate thought. It is how poetry has indefinite sensations to which end, music is an essential, since the comprehension of sweet sound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with a pleasurable idea, is poetry. Music without the idea is simply music. Without music or an intriguing idea, color becomes pallour, man becomes carcass, home becomes catacomb, and the dead are but for a moment motionless. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1123:Todas as coisas são boas ou más por comparação . Uma análise suficiente mostrará que o prazer, em todos os casos é apenas o contraste da dor. Prazer positivo é mera ideia. Para ser feliz até certo ponto, devemos ter sofrido na mesma proporção. Jamais sofrer equivaleria a não ter jamais sido feliz. Mas está demonstrado que na vida inorgânica a dor não pode existir; daí a necessidade da dor para a vida orgânica. A dor da vida primitiva da terra é a única base da felicidade da derradeira vida no Céu. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1124:I scanned more narrowly the real aspect of the building. Its principal feature seemed to be that of an excessive antiquity. The discoloration of ages had been great. Minute fungi overspread the whole exterior, hanging in a fine tangled web-work from the eaves. Yet all this was apart from any extraordinary dilapidation. No portion of the masonry had fallen; and there appeared to be a wild inconsistency between its still perfect adaptation of parts, and the crumbling condition of the individual stones. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1125:Gaily bedight, A gallant knight, In sunshine and in shadow, Had journeyed long, Singing a song, In search of Eldorado. But he grew old— This knight so bold— And o’er his heart a shadow— Fell as he found No spot of ground That looked like Eldorado. And, as his strength Failed him at length, He met a pilgrim shadow— ‘Shadow,’ said he, ‘Where can it be— This land of Eldorado?’ ‘Over the Mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow, Ride, boldly ride,’ The shade replied,— ‘If you seek for Eldorado! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1126:To One Departed
Seraph! thy memory is to me
Like some enchanted far-off isle
In some tumultuous sea Some ocean vexed as it may be
With storms; but where, meanwhile,
Serenest skies continually
Just o'er that one bright island smile.
For 'mid the earnest cares and woes
That crowd around my earthly path,
(Sad path, alas, where grows
Not even one lonely rose!)
My soul at least a solace hath
In dreams of thee; and therein knows
An Eden of bland repose.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1127:Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1128:There’s no question about it. The arts are an extremely high-risk situation. People are willing to take these extraordinary chances to become writers, musicians or painters, and because of them we have a culture. If this ever stops, our culture will die, because most of our culture, in fact, has been created by people that got paid nothing for it— People like Edgar Allan Poe, Vincent van Gogh or Mozart. So, yes, it’s a very foolish thing to do, notoriously foolish, but it seems human to attempt it anyway. ~ Kurt Vonnegut,
1129:There's no question about it. The arts are an extremely high-risk situation. People are willing to take these extraordinary chances to become writers, musicians or painters, and because of them we have a culture. If this ever stops, our culture will die, because most of our culture, in fact, has been created by people that got paid nothing for it-- People like Edgar Allan Poe, Vincent van Gogh or Mozart. So, yes, it's a very foolish thing to do, notoriously foolish, but it seems human to attempt it anyway. ~ Kurt Vonnegut,
1130:Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart - one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is Law, merely because we understand it to be such? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1131:Contemplavo il luogo: quella casa, il nudo disegno del paesaggio, le mura spoglie, le aggrovigliate carici, i radi, decidui tronchi; e pativo uno sfinimento dell’anima, che non posso paragonare a nessuna sensazione terrestre, se non al ridestarsi dell’oppiomane dal fasto dei suoi sogni: il tristo precipizio nella vita quotidiana, l’orrore del velo che cade. Era gelido il cuore, affranto, infermo; tetra, sconsolata meditazione, che nessuna sevizia dell’immaginazione poteva adizzare al sentimento del sublime. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1132:(...) Y los árboles primitivos oscilan eternamente de un lado a otro con un potente resonar. Y de sus altas copas se filtran, gota a gota, rocíos eternos. Y en sus raíces se retuercen, en un inquieto sueño, extrañas flores venenosas. Y en lo alto, con un agudo sonido susurrante, las nubes grises corren por siempre hacia el Oeste, hasta rodar en cataratas sobre las ïgneas paredes del horizonte. Pero ningún viento surca el cielo. Y en las orillas del río Zaire no hay ni calma, ni silencio. [Silencio - Fábula] ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1133:I have endeavored to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It has been my purpose to suggest that, while this Principle itself is strictly and simply the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation of the Principle is always found in an elevating excitement of the soul, quite independent of that passion which is the intoxication of the Heart, or of that truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason... in regard to passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade rather than to elevate the Soul. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1134:O, Times! O, Manners! It is my opinion That you are changing sadly your dominion I mean the reign of manners hath long ceased, For men have none at all, or bad at least; And as for times, altho' 'tis said by many The "good old times" were far the worst of any, Of which sound Doctrine I believe each tittle Yet still I think these worst a little. I've been a thinking -isn't that the phrase?- I like your Yankee words and Yankee ways - I've been a thinking, whether it were best To Take things seriously, Or all in jest ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1135:Had Prozac been available last century, Baudelaire's "spleen," Edgar Allan Poe's moods, the poetry of Sylvia Plath, the lamentations of so many other poets, everything with a soul would have been silenced*....
If large pharmaceutical companies were able to eliminate the seasons, they would probably do so--for profit, of course.

*This does not mean that Sylvia Plath should not have been medicated at all. The point is that pathologies should be medicated when there is risk of suicide, not mood swings. ~ Nassim Nicholas Taleb,
1136:(...) Ahora mi espíritu ardía pleno y libre, con más intensidad que el suyo. En la excitación de mis sueños de opio (porque me hallaba habitualmente encadenado por los grilletes de la droga) gritaba su nombre, en el silencio de la noche o durante el día, en los sombreados retiros de los valles; como si con ese salvaje vehemencia, con la solemne pasión, con el fuego devorador de mi deseo por la desaparecida, pudiera restituirla a la senda que había abandonado, ¡ah!, ¿era posible que fuese para siempre?, en la tierra. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1137:Were the succession of stars endless, then the background of the sky would present us an uniform luminosity, like that displayed by the Galaxy-since there could be absolutely no point, in all that background, at which would not exist a star. The only mode, therefore, in which, under such a state of affairs, we could comprehend the voids which our telescopes find in innumerable directions, would be by supposing the distance of the invisible background so immense that no ray from it has yet been able to reach us at all. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1138:I am SHADOW, and my dwelling is near to the Catacombs of Ptolemais, and hard by those dim plains of Helusion which border upon the foul Charonian canal." And then did we, the seven, start from our seats in horror, and stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast, for the tones in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one being, but of a multitude of beings, and, varying in their cadences from syllable to syllable fell duskly upon our ears in the well-remembered and familiar accents of many thousand departed friends. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1139:In short, I never yet encountered the mere mathematician who could be trusted out of equal roots, or one who did not clandestinely hold it as a point of his faith that x squared + px was absolutely and unconditionally equal to q. Say to one of these gentlemen, by way of experiment, if you please, that you believe occasions may occur where x squared + px is not altogether equal to q, and, having made him understand what you mean, get out of his reach as speedily as convenient, for, beyond doubt, he will endeavor to knock you down. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1140:In visions of the dark night   I have dreamed of joy departed- But a waking dream of life and light   Hath left me broken-hearted. Ah! what is not a dream by day   To him whose eyes are cast On things around him with a ray   Turned back upon the past? That holy dream- that holy dream,   While all the world were chiding, Hath cheered me as a lovely beam   A lonely spirit guiding. What though that light, thro' storm and night,   So trembled from afar- What could there be more purely bright   In Truth's day-star? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1141:The edge of the whirl was represented by a broad belt of gleaming spray; but no particle of this slipped into the mouth of the terrific tunnel, whose interior, as far as the eye could fathom it, was a smooth, shining, and jet black wall of water, inclined to the horizon at an angle of some forty-five degrees, speeding dizzily round and round with a swaying and sweltering motion, and sending forth to the winds an appalling voice, half shriek, half roar, such as not even the mighty cataract of Niagara ever lifts up in its agony to Heaven. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1142:It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture –a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees – very gradually –I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1143:Is it not indeed, possible that, while a high order of genius is necessarily ambitious, the highest is above that which is termed ambition? And may it not thus happen that many far greater than Milton have contentedly remained "mute and inglorious"? I believe that the world has never seen—and that, unless through some series of accidents goading the noblest order of mind into distateful exertion, the world will never see—that full extent of triumphant execution, in the richer domains of art, of which the human nature is absolutely capable. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1144:To Helen
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore,
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
The weary, wayworn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece
And the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand!
Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land!
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1145:Twas noontide of summer, And mid-time of night; And stars, in their orbits, Shone pale, thro’ the light Of the brighter, cold moon, ‘Mid planets her slaves, Herself in the Heavens, Her beam on the waves. I gazed awhile On her cold smile; Too cold — too cold for me — There pass’d, as a shroud, A fleecy cloud, And I turned away to thee, Proud Evening Star, In thy glory afar, And dearer thy beam shall be; For joy to my heart Is the proud part Thou bearest in Heaven at night, And more I admire Thy distant fire, Than that colder, lowly light.   ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1146:The “Red Death” had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avator and its seal — the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of the disease, were the incidents of half an hour. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1147:But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1148:After reading Edgar Allan Poe. Something the critics have not noticed: a new literary world pointing to the literature of the 20th Century. Scientific miracles, fables on the pattern A+ B, a clear-sighted, sickly literature. No more poetry but analytic fantasy. Something monomaniacal. Things playing a more important part than people; love giving away to deductions and other forms of ideas, style, subject and interest. The basis of the novel transferred from the heart to the head, from the passion to the idea, from the drama to the denouement. ~ Jules de Goncourt,
1149:One morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree; — hung it with the tears streaming from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse at my heart; — hung it because I knew that it had loved me, and because I felt it had given me no reason of offence; — hung it because I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin — a deadly sin that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it — if such a thing were possible — even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1150:But the aeronaut, still greatly discomposed, and having apparently no farther business to detain him in Rotterdam, began at this moment to make busy preparations for departure; and it being necessary to discharge a portion of ballast to enable him to reascend, the half dozen bags which he threw out, one after another, without taking the trouble to empty their contents, tumbled, every one of them, most unfortunately upon the back of the burgomaster, and rolled him over and over no less than one-and-twenty times, in the face of every man in Rotterdam. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1151:The principle of vis inertiae (...) seems to be identical in physics and metaphysics. It is not more true in the former, that a large body is with more difficulty set in motion than a smaller one, and that its subsequent momentum is commensurate with this difficulty, than it is, in the latter, that intellects of the vaster capacity, while more forcible, more constant, and more eventful in their movements than those of inferior grade, are yet the less readily moved, and more embarrassed, and full of hesitation in the first few steps of their progress ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1152:But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out- out are the lights- out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1153:I am SHADOW, and my dwelling is near to the
Catacombs of Ptolemais, and hard by those dim plains of Helusion
which border upon the foul Charonian canal." And then did we, the
seven, start from our seats in horror, and stand trembling, and
shuddering, and aghast, for the tones in the voice of the shadow were
not the tones of any one being, but of a multitude of beings, and,
varying in their cadences from syllable to syllable fell duskly upon
our ears in the well-remembered and familiar accents of many thousand
departed friends. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1154:In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed-
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream- that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light, thro' storm and night,
So trembled from afar-
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth's day-star? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1155:I must perish in this deplorable folly. Thus, thus, and not otherwise, shall I be lost. I dread the events of the future, not in themselves, but in their results. I shudder at the thought of any, even the most trivial, incident, which may operate upon this intolerable agitation of soul. I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect-in terror. In this unnerved-in this pitiable condition-I feel that the period will sooner or later arrive when I must abandon life and reason together, in some struggle with the grim phantasm, FEAR. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1156:O, Times! O, Manners! It is my opinion
That you are changing sadly your dominion
I mean the reign of manners hath long ceased,
For men have none at all, or bad at least;
And as for times, altho' 'tis said by many
The "good old times" were far the worst of any,
Of which sound Doctrine I believe each tittle
Yet still I think these worst a little.

I've been a thinking -isn't that the phrase?-
I like your Yankee words and Yankee ways -
I've been a thinking, whether it were best
To Take things seriously, Or all in jest ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1157:Moriré -dijo-, tengo que morir de esta deplorable locura. Así, así y no de otro modo. Temo los sucesos del futuro, no por sí mismos, sino por sus resultados. Me estremezco pensando en cualquier incidente, hasta el más trivial, que pueda actuar sobre esta intolerable agitación. En realidad, no aborrezco el peligro, salvo en su efecto absoluto: el terror. En este desaliento, en esta lamentable condición, siento que tarde o temprano llegará el momento en que deba abandonar, a la vez, la vida y la razón, en alguna lucha con el horroroso fantasma: el miedo. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1158:The Bells - A Collaboration
The bells! — ah, the bells!
The little silver bells!
How fairy-like a melody there floats
From their throats. —
From their merry little throats —
From the silver, tinkling throats
Of the bells, bells, bells —
Of the bells!
The bells! — ah, the bells!
The heavy iron bells!
How horrible a monody there floats
From their throats —
From their deep-toned throats —
From their melancholy throats!
How I shudder at the notes
Of the bells, bells, bells —
Of the bells!
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1159:A feeling, for which I have no name, has taken possession of my soul —a sensation which will admit of no analysis, to which the lessons of bygone times are inadequate, and for which I fear futurity itself will offer me no key. To a mind constituted like my own, the latter consideration is an evil. I shall never—I know that I shall never—be satisfied with regard to the nature of my conceptions. Yet it is not wonderful that these conceptions are indefinite, since they have their origin in sources so utterly novel. A new sense—a new entity is added to my soul. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1160:And because our reason violently deters us from the brink, therefore, do we the more impetuously approach it. There is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of him, who shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a plunge. To indulge for a moment, in any attempt at thought, is to be inevitably lost; for reflection but urges us to forbear, and therefore it is, I say, that we cannot. If there be no friendly arm to check us, or if we fail in a sudden effort to prostrate ourselves backward from the abyss, we plunge, and are destroyed. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1161:In my own heart there dwells no faith in praeternature. That Nature and its God are two, no man who thinks, will deny. That the latter, creating the former, can, at will, control or modify it, is also unquestionable. I say "at will"; for the question is of will, and not, as the insanity of logic has assumed, of power. It is not that the Deity cannot modify his laws, but that we insult him in imagining a possible necessity for modification. In their origin these laws were fashioned to embrace all contingencies which could lie in the Future. With God all is Now. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1162:In enforcing a truth we need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must be simple, precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a word, we must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact converse of the poetical. He must be blind indeed who does not perceive the radical and chasmal difference between the truthful and the poetical modes of inculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond redemption who, in spite of these differences, shall still persist in attempting to reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1163:They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in awakening, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil. They penetrate, however, rudderless or compassless into the vast ocean of the "light ineffable," and again, like the adventures of the Nubian geographer, "agressi sunt mare tenebrarum, quid in eo esset exploraturi. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1164:The rays of the moon seemed to search the very bottom of the profound gulf; but still I could make out nothing distinctly, on account of a thick mist in which everything there was enveloped, and over which there hung a magnificent rainbow, like that narrow and tottering bridge which Musselmen say is the only pathway between Time and Eternity. This mist, or spray, was no doubt occasioned by the clashing of the great walls of the funnel, as they all met together at the bottom-but the yell that went up to the Heavens from out of that mist, I dare not attempt to describe. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1165:Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.” And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted — nevermore! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1166:The Merchant, to Secure His Treasure The merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrowed name: Euphelia serves to grace my measure, But Cloe is my real flame. My softest verse, my darling lyre Upon Euphelia's toilet lay - When Cloe noted her desire That I should sing, that I should play. My lyre I tune, my voice I raise, But with my numbers mix my sighs; And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise, I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes. Fair Cloe blushed; Euphelia frowned: I sung, and gazed; I played, and trembled: And Venus to the Loves around Remarked how ill we all dissembled. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1167:Song
I saw thee on thy bridal dayWhen a burning blush came o'er thee,
Though happiness around thee lay,
The world all love before thee:
And in thine eye a kindling light
(Whatever it might be)
Was all on Earth my aching sight
Of Loveliness could see.
That blush, perhaps, was maiden shameAs such it well may passThough its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
In the breast of him, alas!
Who saw thee on that bridal day,
When that deep blush would come o'er thee,
Though happiness around thee lay;
The world all love before thee.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1168:FAIR river! in thy bright, clear flow             Of crystal, wandering water,         Thou art an emblem of the glow                 Of beauty—the unhidden heart—                 The playful maziness of art             In old Alberto’s daughter;         But when within thy wave she looks—             Which glistens then, and trembles—         Why, then, the prettiest of brooks             Her worshipper resembles;         For in his heart, as in thy stream,             Her image deeply lies—         His heart which trembles at the beam             Of her soul-searching eyes. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1169:Come little children I'll take thee away, into a land of Enchantment Come little children the time's come to play here in my garden of Shadows Follow sweet children I'll show thee the way through all the pain and the Sorrows Weep not poor childlen for life is this way murdering beauty and Passions Hush now dear children it must be this way to weary of life and Deceptions Rest now my children for soon we'll away into the calm and the Quiet Come little children I'll take thee away, into a land of Enchantment Come little children the time's come to play here in my garden of Shadows ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1170:Eldorado
Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.
But he grew oldThis knight so boldAnd o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.
And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it beThis land of Eldorado?"
"Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied"If you seek for Eldorado!"
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1171:I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids -- and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass.When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination -- indeed, everything and anything except me. ~ Ralph Ellison,
1172:I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids -- and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination -- indeed, everything and anything except me. ~ Ralph Ellison,
1173:By the lakes that thus outspread Their lone waters, lone and dead,— Their sad waters, sad and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily,— By the mountains—near the river Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,— By the gray woods,—by the swamp Where the toad and the newt encamp,— By the dismal tarns and pools Where dwell the Ghouls,— By each spot the most unholy— In each nook most melancholy,— There the traveller meets aghast Sheeted Memories of the past— Shrouded forms that start and sigh As they pass the wanderer by— White-robed forms of friends long given, In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1174:Misery is manifold. The wretchedness of earth is multiform. Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbow, its hues are as various as the hues of that arch, --as distinct too, yet as intimately blended. Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbow! How is it that from beauty I have derived a type of unloveliness? --from the covenant of peace a simile of sorrow? But as, in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so, in fact, out of joy is sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day, or the agonies which are have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1175:Sancta Maria
Sancta Maria! turn thine eyes Upon the sinner's sacrifice,
Of fervent prayer and humble love,
From thy holy throne above.
At morn - at noon - at twilight dim Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
In joy and wo - in good and ill Mother of God, be with me still!
When the Hours flew brightly by,
And not a cloud obscured the sky,
My soul, lest it should truant be,
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee;
Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast
Darkly my Present and my Past,
Let my Future radiant shine
With sweet hopes of thee and thine!
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1176:THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely, settled --but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1177:Allí, como las olas en las Hébridas, la maleza se agita continuamente. Pero ningún viento surca el cielo. Y los altos árboles primitivos oscilan eternamente de un lado a otro con un potente resonar. Y de sus altas copas se filtran, gota a gota, rocíos eternos. Y en sus raíces se retuercen, en un inquieto sueño, extrañas flores venenosas. Y en lo alto, con un agudo sonido susurrante, las nubes grises corren por siempre hacia el oeste, hasta rodar en cataratas sobre las ígneas paredes del horizonte. Pero ningún viento surca el cielo. Y en las orillas del río Zaire no hay ni calma ni silencio. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1178:I looked; and the unseen figure, which still grasped me by the wrist, bad caused to be thrown open the graves of all mankind; and from each issued the faint phosphoric radiance of decay; so that I could see the innermost recesses, and there view the shrouded bodies in their dead and solemn slumber with the worm. But alas! the real sleepers were fewer, by many millions, than those who slumbered not at all; and there was a feebly struggling; and there was a general and sad unrest; and from out of the depths of the countless pits there came a melancholy rustling from the garments of the buried. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1179:He was a goodly spirit—he who fell:         A wanderer by moss-y-mantled well—         A gazer on the lights that shine above—         A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:         What wonder? for each star is eye-like there,         And looks so sweetly down on Beauty’s hair—         And they, and every mossy spring were holy         To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.         The night had found (to him a night of woe)         Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo—         Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,         And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.         Here ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1180:Twas noontide of summer,
And mid-time of night;
And stars, in their orbits,
Shone pale, thro' the light
Of the brighter, cold moon,
'Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,
Her beam on the waves.
I gazed awhile
On her cold smile;
Too cold–too cold for me-
There pass'd, as a shroud,
A fleecy cloud,
And I turned away to thee,
Proud Evening Star,
In thy glory afar,
And dearer thy beam shall be;
For joy to my heart
Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
And more I admire
Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1181:How long have you had that cough?" "Ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!" My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes. "It is nothing," he said, at last. "Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi—" "Enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough." "True—true, ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1182:A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for its immediate object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having for its object an indefinite instead of a definite pleasure, being a poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presenting perceptible images with definite, poetry with in definite sensations, to which end music is an essential, since the comprehension of sweet sound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with a pleasurable idea, is poetry; music without the idea is simply music; the idea without the music is prose from its very definitiveness. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1183:Dobbiamo tenere a mente che, in generale, fare sensazione, colpire le fantasie, per i nostri giornali è più importante che volere la verità. La verità è interessante soltanto quando coincide con la sensazione. La stampa che segua solo opinioni correnti, anche se si tratti di opinioni fondate, non ha credito fra la massa. La massa considera profondo solo chi suggerisce aspre contraddizioni con le idee generali. Nella logica, non meno che nella letteratura, il più pungente è l'epigramma e anche il più universalmente apprezzato; in entrambi i campi è quello più a buon mercato.
(Cavaliere C. Auguste Dupin) ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1184:These repeated insults were not to be endured by an imperious nobility. Such invitations became less cordial—less frequent—in time they ceased altogether. The widow of the unfortunate Count Berlifitzing was even heard to express a hope "that the Baron might be at home when he did not wish to be at home, since he disdained the company of his equals; and ride when he did not wish to ride, since he preferred the society of a horse." This to be sure was a very silly explosion of hereditary pique; and merely proved how singularly unmeaning our sayings are apt to become, when we desire to be unusually energetic. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1185:We will say, then, that I am mad. I grant, at least, that there are two distinct conditions of my mental existence-the condition of a lucid reason, not to be disputed, and belonging to the memory of events forming the first epoch of my life-and a condition of shadow and doubt, appertaining to the present, and to the recollection of what constitutes the second great era of my being. Therefore, what I shall tell of the earlier period, believe; and to what I may relate of the later time, give only such credit as may seem due, or doubt it altogether, or, if doubt it ye cannot, then play unto its riddle the Oedipus. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1186:For some months I had been ill in health, but was now convalescent, and, with returning strength, found myself in one of those happy moods which are so precisely the converse of ennui — moods of the keenest appetency, when the film from the mental vision departs — the αχλυς ος πριν επηεν — and the intellect, electrified, surpasses as greatly its every-day condition, as does the vivid yet candid reason of Leibnitz, the mad and flimsy rhetoric of Gorgias. Merely to breathe was enjoyment; and I derived positive pleasure even from many of the legitimate sources of pain. I felt a calm but inquisitive interest in every thing. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1187:An Enigma
"Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,
"Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
Through all the flimsy things we see at once
As easily as through a Naples bonnetTrash of all trash!- how can a lady don it?
Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuffOwl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."
And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
The general tuckermanities are arrant
Bubbles- ephemeral and so transparentBut this is, now- you may depend upon itStable, opaque, immortal- all by dint
Of the dear names that he concealed within 't.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1188:Weird fiction is a strange beast, an eclectic genre (or subgenre). It originated in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century through the works of authors including Edgar Allan Poe, Arthur Machen, and M. R. James, and has since developed over the course of the last hundred years to encompass new writers such as China Miéville, M. John Harrison and others. Weird fiction is notable for its generic uncertainty; it exists at the boundary between science fiction and horror—perhaps—or between literary fiction and horror—perhaps—or between Lovecraft and whatever happens to be floating close to hand at any given moment—perhaps! ~ Helen Marshall,
1189:Eldorado

Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old—
This knight so bold—
And o’er his heart a shadow—
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow—
‘Shadow,’ said he,
‘Where can it be—
This land of Eldorado?’

‘Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,’
The shade replied,—
‘If you seek for Eldorado! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1190:Imitation
A dark unfathomed tide
Of interminable pride A mystery, and a dream,
Should my early life seem;
I say that dream was fraught
With a wild and waking thought
Of beings that have been,
Which my spirit hath not seen,
Had I let them pass me by,
With a dreaming eye!
Let none of earth inherit
That vision of my spirit;
Those thoughts I would control,
As a spell upon his soul:
For that bright hope at last
And that light time have past,
And my worldly rest hath gone
With a sigh as it passed on:
I care not though it perish
With a thought I then did cherish
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1191:Das Ufer des Flusses und der vielen glitzernden Bächlein, die ihm auf allerlei Umwegen zuströmten, und ebenso alle Flächen, die von den Ufern sich ans Wasser hinuntersenkten, waren von kurzem, dichten, gleichmäßigen Rasen bedeckt, der lieblich duftete. Und weiter noch dehnte sich dieser sanfte grüne Teppich, durchs ganze Tal, vom Fluß bis an den Fuß der Höhen, die es umgürteten. Diese wundervolle weite Grasfläche war über und über mit gelben Butterblumen, weißen Gänseblümchen, blauen Veilchen und rubinroten Asphodelen besprenkelt, und ihre unbeschreibliche Schönheit redete laut zu unsern Herzen von der Liebe und der Herrlichkeit Gottes. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1192:Sonnet- To Zante
Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take!
How many memories of what radiant hours
At sight of thee and thine at once awake!
How many scenes of what departed bliss!
How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!
How many visions of a maiden that is
No more- no more upon thy verdant slopes!
No more! alas, that magical sad sound
Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no moreThy memory no more! Accursed ground
Henceforth I hold thy flower-enameled shore,
O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!
"Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1193:Evening Star
'Twas noontide of summer,
And mid-time of night;
And stars, in their orbits,
Shone pale, thro' the light
Of the brighter, cold moon,
'Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,
Her beam on the waves.
I gazed awhile
On her cold smile;
Too cold- too cold for meThere pass'd, as a shroud,
A fleecy cloud,
And I turned away to thee,
Proud Evening Star,
In thy glory afar,
And dearer thy beam shall be;
For joy to my heart
Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
And more I admire
Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1194:Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise?
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1195:To My Mother"

Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of “Mother,”
Therefore by that dear name I long have called you—
You who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you
In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
My mother—my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
By that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1196:To My Mother
Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of "Mother,"
Therefore by that dear name I long have called youYou who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you
In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
My mother- my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
By that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1197:From the dim regions beyond the mountains at the upper end of our encircled domain, there crept out a narrow and deep river, brighter than all save the eyes of Eleonora; and, winding stealthily about in mazy courses, it passed away, at length, through a shadowy gorge, among hills still dimmer than those whence it had issued. We called it the "River of Silence"; for there seemed to be a hushing influence in its flow. No murmur arose from its bed, and so gently it wandered along, that the pearly pebbles upon which we loved to gaze, far down within its bosom, stirred not at all, but lay in a motionless content, each in its own old station, shining on gloriously forever. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1198:To look at a star by glances—to view it in a side-long way, by turning toward it the exterior portions of the retina (more susceptible of feeble impressions of light than the interior), is to behold the star distinctly—is to have the best appreciation of its lustre—a lustre which grows dim just in proportion as we turn our vision fully upon it. A greater number of rays actually fall upon the eye in the latter case, but in the former, there is the more refined capacity for comprehension. By undue profundity we perplex and enfeeble thought; and it is possible to make even Venus herself vanish from the firmament by a scrutiny too sustained, too concentrated, or too direct. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1199:Sonnet- To Science
Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1200:My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,         As it is lasting, so be deep;         Soft may the worms about her creep!         Far in the forest, dim and old,         For her may some tall vault unfold—         Some vault that oft hath flung its black         And wingèd panels fluttering back,         Triumphant, o’er the crested palls,         Of her grand family funerals—         Some sepulchre, remote, alone,         Against whose portal she hath thrown,         In childhood many an idle stone—         Some tomb from out whose sounding door         She ne’er shall force an echo more,         Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!         It was the dead who groaned within. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1201:The history of human knowledge has so uninterruptedly shown that to collateral, or incidental, or accidental events we are indebted for the most numerous and most valuable discoveries, that it has at length become necessary, in any prospective view of improvement, to make not only large, but the largest allowances for inventions that shall arise by chance, and quite out of the range of ordinary expectation. It is no longer philosophical to base, upon what has been, a vision of what is to be. Accident is admitted as a portion of the substructure. We make chance a matter of absolute calculation. We subject the unlooked for and unimagined, to the mathematical formulae of the schools. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1202:Hymn To Aristogeiton And Harmodius
Wreathed in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal
Like those champions devoted and brave,
When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,
And to Athens deliverance gave.
Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam
In the joy breathing isles of the blest;
Where the mighty of old have their home Where Achilles and Diomed rest.
In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine,
Like Harmodious, the gallant and good,
When he made at the tutelar shrine
A libation of Tyranny's blood.
Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!
Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs!
Endless ages shall cherish your fame
Embalmed in their echoing songs!
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1203:I have been thus particular in speaking of Dirk Peters, because, ferocious as he appeared, he proved the main instrument in preserving the life of Augustus, and because I shall have frequent occasion to mention him hereafter in the course of my narrative — a narrative, let me here say, which, in its latter portions, will be found to include incidents of a nature so entirely out of the range of human experience, and for this reason so far beyond the limits of human credulity, that I proceed in utter hopelessness of obtaining credence for all that I shall tell, yet confidently trusting in time and progressing science to verify some of the most important and most improbable of my statements. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1204:Edgar Allan Poe was an American poet, short story writer, playwright, editor, critic, essayist and one of the leaders of the American Romantic Movement. Best known for his tales of the macabre and mystery, Poe was one of the early American practitioners of the short story and a progenitor of detective fiction and crime fiction. He is also credited with contributing to the emergent science fiction genre.Poe died at the age of 40. The cause of his death is undetermined and has been attributed to alcohol, drugs, cholera, rabies, suicide (although likely to be mistaken with his suicide attempt in the previous year), tuberculosis, heart disease, brain congestion and other agents. Source: Wikipedia ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1205:Tüm Hikayeler (Edgar Allan Poe) - Your Highlight at location 8073-8077 | Added on Thursday, 26 February 2015 09:06:14 "Ve yukarı baktım ve kayanın tepesinde bir adam duruyordu; ve adamın hareketlerini izlemek için nilüferlerin arasına gizlendim. Ve adam uzun boylu ve heybetliydi, üstünde omuzlarından ayaklarına dek eski Roma tarzı bir yün harmani vardı. Ve vücut şeklini pek uzaktan seçemiyordum - ama yüz hatları bir tanrınınkiydi; çünkü gecenin ve sisin ve ayın, çiyin örtüsü yüzünü açıkta bırakmıştı. Alnı geniş ve düşünceliydi ve çılgın gözleri endişeliydi; ve yanağındaki birkaç kırışıkta kederin ve bezginliğin ve insanlığa karşı duyulan tiksintinin ve yalnızlığa duyulan özlemin söylevlerini okudum. ~ Anonymous,
1206:To M-O! I care not that my earthly lot
Hath little of Earth in it,
That years of love have been forgot
In the fever of a minute:
I heed not that the desolate
Are happier, sweet, than I,
But that you meddle with my fate
Who am a passer by.
It is not that my founts of bliss
Are gushing- strange! with tearsOr that the thrill of a single kiss
Hath palsied many years'Tis not that the flowers of twenty springs
Which have wither'd as they rose
Lie dead on my heart-strings
With the weight of an age of snows.
Not that the grass- O! may it thrive!
On my grave is growing or grownBut that, while I am dead yet alive
I cannot be, lady, alone.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1207:THE LAKE IN youth's spring it was my lot To haunt of the wide earth a spot The which I could not love the less; So lovely was the loneliness Of a wild lake, with black rock bound, And the tall pines that tower'd around. But when the night had thrown her pall Upon that spot—as upon all, And the wind would pass me by In its stilly melody, My infant spirit would awake To the terror of the lone lake. Yet that terror was not fright— But a tremulous delight, And a feeling undefined, Springing from a darken'd mind. Death was in that poison'd wave And in its gulf a fitting grave For him who thence could solace bring To his dark imagining; Whose wildering thought could even make An Eden of that dim lake.   ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1208:Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"— here I opened wide the door; —
Darkness there, and nothing more.Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"— here I opened wide the door; —
Darkness there, and nothing more. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1209:A twitchy nose popped up underneath her hand, near the rim of the portal. “They’re like this all the time. I can’t bear it any longer. I can’t and I shan’t!”
“Edgar!” Lex’s face melted into a grin as she lowered her hand. “Oh, man. I’ve missed you.”
Edgar Allan Poe smoothed out his frock coat. “Yes. Well. Your absence has been noted as well. I’m left to fend for myself with these simpering nincompoops.”
“Hey, Poe,” said Tut. “Your mustache is showing!” He smiled a jockish grin and gave Cordy a high-five.
“I know my mustache is—that’s not even a joke—” Edgar’s lip quivered. “You see what I mean? It seems the presidents have taught him the ever-popular sport of Torture the Poet. Oh, yes. Taught. Him. Well. ~ Gina Damico,
1210:From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were; I have not seen As others saw; I could not bring My passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I loved, I loved alone. Then — in my childhood, in the dawn Of a most stormy life — was drawn From every depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still: From the torrent, or the fountain, From the red cliff of the mountain, From the sun that round me rolled In its autumn tint of gold, From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by, From the thunder and the storm, And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view.   ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1211:...is a pale desert of gigantic water-lilies. They sigh one unto the other in that solitude. And stretch towards the heaven their long and ghastly necks. And nod to and fro their everlasting heads. And there is an indistinct murmur which cometh out from among them like the rushing of subterrene water. And they sigh unto the other... And the tall primeval trees rock eternally hither and thither with a crashing and mighty sound. And from their high summits, one by one, drop everlasting dews. And at the roots strange poisonous flowers lie writhing in perturbed slumber. And overhead, with a rustling loud noise, the gray clouds rush westwardly forever, until they roll, a cataract, over the fiery wall of the horizon... ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1212:Enigma
The noblest name in Allegory's page,
The hand that traced inexorable rage;
A pleasing moralist whose page refined,
Displays the deepest knowledge of the mind;
A tender poet of a foreign tongue,
(Indited in the language that he sung.)
A bard of brilliant but unlicensed page
At once the shame and glory of our age,
The prince of harmony and stirling sense,
The ancient dramatist of eminence,
The bard that paints imagination's powers,
And him whose song revives departed hours,
Once more an ancient tragic bard recall,
In boldness of design surpassing all.
These names when rightly read, a name [make] known
Which gathers all their glories in its own.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1213:Sonnet- Silence
There are some qualities- some incorporate things,
That have a double life, which thus is made
A type of that twin entity which springs
From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.
There is a two-fold Silence- sea and shoreBody and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,
Some human memories and tearful lore,
Render him terrorless: his name's "No More."
He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!
No power hath he of evil in himself;
But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)
Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,
That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
No foot of man,) commend thyself to God!
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1214:Hay pocas situaciones decisivas para el hombre en que no le inspire un profundo interés su propia conversación, interés que crece minuto a minuto con la fragilidad del lazo que sostiene nuestra existencia; pero entonces el carácter silencioso, positivo, riguroso de la tarea que me habían impuesto, tan diferente a la de los tumultuosos peligros de la tempestad o de los horrores progresivos del hambre, me hizo reflexionar sobre las pocas probabilidades que tenía de escapar de la más espantosa de las muertes, de una muerte de horrible utilidad, y cada partícula de la energía que por tanto tiempo me había sostenido huía entonces como una pluma arrebatada por el viento, dejándome impotente a merced del más abyecto y lastimoso terror. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1215:Jetez sur une étoile un rapide coup d'œil, regardez-la obliquement, en tournant vers elle la partie latérale de la rétine (beaucoup plus sensible à une lumière faible que la partie centrale), et vous verrez l'étoile plus distinctement; vous aurez l'appréciation la plus juste de son éclat, éclat qui s'obscurcit à proportion que vous dirigez votre vue en plein sur elle. Dans le dernier cas, il tombe sur l'œil un plus grand nombre de rayons; mais dans le premier, il y a une réceptibilité plus complète, une susceptibilité beaucoup plus vive. Une profondeur outrée affaiblit la pensée et la rend perplexe; et il est possible de faire disparaître Vénus elle-même du firmament par une attention trop soutenue, trop concentrée, trop directe. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1216:Men have called me mad; but the question is not settled whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence -- whether much that is glorious -- whether all that is profound -- does not spring from disease of thought -- from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who only dream by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in waking, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil. They penetrate, however rudderless or compassless, into the vast ocean of the ‘light ineffable’. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1217:Elizabeth
Elizabeth, it surely is most fit
[Logic and common usage so commanding]
In thy own book that first thy name be writ,
Zeno and other sages notwithstanding;
And I have other reasons for so doing
Besides my innate love of contradiction;
Each poet - if a poet - in pursuing
The muses thro' their bowers of Truth or Fiction,
Has studied very little of his part,
Read nothing, written less - in short's a fool
Endued with neither soul, nor sense, nor art,
Being ignorant of one important rule,
Employed in even the theses of the schoolCalled - I forget the heathenish Greek name
[Called anything, its meaning is the same]
"Always write first things uppermost in the heart."
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1218:We have still a thirst unquenchable... It is the desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the Beauty before us — but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired by an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we struggle, by multiform combinations among the things and thoughts of Time, to attain a portion of that Loveliness whose very elements, perhaps, appertain to eternity alone. And thus... we find ourselves melted into tears — we weep then... through a certain, petulant, impatient sorrow at our inability to grasp now, wholly, here on earth, at once and for ever, those divine and rapturous joys, of which through the poem, or through the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate glimpses. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1219:He admitted but four elementary principles, or more strictly, conditions of bliss. That which he considered chief was (strange to say!) the simple and purely physical one of free exercise in the open air. "The health," he said, "attainable by other means is scarcely worth the name." He instanced the ecstasies of the fox hunter, and pointed to the tillers of the earth, the only people who, as a class, can be fairly considered happier than others. His second condition was love of woman. His third, and most difficult of realization, was the contempt of ambition. His fourth was an object of unceasing pursuit; and he held that, other things being equal, the extent of attainable happiness was in proportion to the spirituality of this object. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1220:Sarah Hale was every inch a superhero. Not only did she fight for Thanksgiving, she fought for playgrounds for kids, schools for girls, and historical monuments for everyone.
She argued against spanking, pie for breakfast, dull stories, corsets and bloomers and bustles, and very serious things like slavery.
As if that weren’t enough, she raised five children; wrote poetry, children’s books, novels, and biographies; was the first female magazine editor in America; published great American authors like Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Edgar Allan Poe; and composed “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

How did she do all of these things?

She was bold, brave, stubborn, and smart. And Sarah Hale had a secret weapon…
a pen. ~ Laurie Halse Anderson,
1221:A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1222:A Dream Within A Dream
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avowYou are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sandHow few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1223:It is now high time that I should explain to your Excellencies the object of my perilous voyage. Your Excellencies will bear in mind that distressed circumstances in Rotterdam had at length driven me to the resolution of committing suicide. It was not, however, that to life itself I had any, positive disgust, but that I was harassed beyond endurance by the adventitious miseries attending my situation. In this state of mind, wishing to live, yet wearied with life, the treatise at the stall of the bookseller opened a resource to my imagination. I then finally made up my mind. I determined to depart, yet live—to leave the world, yet continue to exist—in short, to drop enigmas, I resolved, let what would ensue, to force a passage, if I could, to the moon. Now, ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1224:Romance
Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been- a most familiar birdTaught me my alphabet to sayTo lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child- with a most knowing eye.
Of late, eternal Condor years
So shake the very Heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Through gazing on the unquiet sky.
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon my spirit flingsThat little time with lyre and rhyme
To while away- forbidden things!
My heart would feel to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the strings.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1225:In the internal decoration, if not in the external architecture of their residences, the English are supreme. The Italians have but little sentiment beyond marbles and colors. In France, meliora probant, deteriora sequuntur -- the people are too much a race of gadabouts to maintain those household proprieties of which, indeed, they have a delicate appreciation, or at least the elements of a proper sense. The Chinese and most of the Eastern races have a warm but inappropriate fancy. The Scotch are poor decorists. The Dutch have, perhaps, an indeterminate idea that a curtain is not a cabbage. In Spain, they are all curtains -- a nation of hangmen. The Russians do not furnish. The Hottentots and Kickapoos are very well in their way. The Yankees alone are preposterous. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1226:From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view— ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1227:Thy soul shall find itself alone 'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone Not one, of all the crowd, to pry Into thine hour of secrecy. Be silent in that solitude Which is not loneliness—for then The spirits of the dead who stood In life before thee are again In death around thee—and their will Shall overshadow thee: be still. The night—tho' clear—shall frown— And the stars shall not look down From their high thrones in the Heaven, With light like Hope to mortals given— But their red orbs, without beam, To thy weariness shall seem As a burning and a fever Which would cling to thee forever. Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish— Now are visions ne'er to vanish— From thy spirit shall they pass No more—like dew-drops from the grass. The breeze—the breath of God—is still— ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1228:From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1229:Alone"

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view— ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1230:Eulalie
I dwelt alone
In a world of moan,
And my soul was a stagnant tide,
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing brideTill the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.
Ah, less- less bright
The stars of the night
Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
That the vapor can make
With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curlCan compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless
curl.
Now Doubt- now Pain
Come never again,
For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
And all day long
Shines, bright and strong,
Astarte within the sky,
While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eyeWhile ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1231:From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view— ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1232:I Dwelt alone
In a world of moan,
And my soul was a stagnant tide,
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride-
Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride
Ah, less-less bright
The stars of night
Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
And never a flake
That the vapor can make
With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl-
Can vie compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless curl

Now Doubt-now Pain
Come never again,
For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
And all day long
Shine, bright and strong,
Astarte within the sky,
While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye-
While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1233:The Lake
In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the lessSo lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.
But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melodyThen- ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.
Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delightA feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to defineNor Love- although the Love were thine.
Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imaginingWhose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1234:Alone
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1235:To M.L.S.
Of all who hail thy presence as the morningOf all to whom thine absence is the nightThe blotting utterly from out high heaven
The sacred sun- of all who, weeping, bless thee
Hourly for hope- for life- ah! above all,
For the resurrection of deep-buried faith
In Truth- in Virtue- in HumanityOf all who, on Despair's unhallowed bed
Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!"
At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
In the seraphic glancing of thine eyesOf all who owe thee most- whose gratitude
Nearest resembles worship- oh, remember
The truest- the most fervently devoted,
And think that these weak lines are written by himBy him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
His spirit is communing with an angel's.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1236:I’ve always found it strange that so many of them meet their Maker in unusual circumstances. Matthew Arnold, for example, died while leaping over a hedge . . .’ ‘I suppose he did,’ Sidney replied. ‘And didn’t the Chinese poet Li Po drown while trying to kiss the reflection of the moon in water?’ ‘Pushkin and Lermontov were both killed in duels . . .’ Sidney began to recall his classical education, ‘Aeschylus was felled by a falling tortoise.’ ‘Euripides was mauled by a pack of wild dogs . . .’ ‘Neither of them strictly poets, of course . . .’ Sidney cautioned. ‘Although if the criteria was broadened to writers in general then we could have a field day,’ Leonard Graham continued. ‘Edgar Allan Poe was found in another person’s clothes.’ ‘And Sherwood Anderson swallowed a toothpick. But we are getting distracted, my good friend. ~ James Runcie,
1237:The Lake

In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the less-
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.

But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody-
Then-ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.

Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight-
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define-
Nor Love-although the Love were thine.

Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining-
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1238:To Marie Louise (Shew)
Of all who hail thy presence as the morningOf all to whom thine absence is the nightThe blotting utterly from out high heaven
The sacred sun- of all who, weeping, bless thee
Hourly for hope- for life- ah! above all,
For the resurrection of deep-buried faith
In Truth- in Virtue- in HumanityOf all who, on Despair's unhallowed bed
Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
At thy soft-murmured words, 'Let there be light!'
At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
In the seraphic glancing of thine eyesOf all who owe thee most- whose gratitude
Nearest resembles worship- oh, remember
The truest- the most fervently devoted,
And think that these weak lines are written by himBy him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
His spirit is communing with an angel's.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1239:Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence—whether much that is glorious—whether all that is profound—does not spring from disease of thought—from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their grey visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in awaking, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil. They penetrate, however rudderless or compassless, into the vast ocean of the 'light ineffable' and again, like the adventurers of the Nubian geographer, 'agressi sunt mare tenebrarum, quid in eo esset exploraturi. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1240:It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. It's pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the note orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to harken to the sound and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observes that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as in confessed revery or meditation ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1241:These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected while going at random the "rounds of the press." I am naturally anxious that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate at all. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon me to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the public, or very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have prevented me from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under happier circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be held in reverence: they must not—they cannot at will be excited, with an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of mankind. 1845. E. A. P. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1242:The Happiest Day, The Happiest Hour
The happiest day- the happiest hour
My sear'd and blighted heart hath known,
The highest hope of pride and power,
I feel hath flown.
Of power! said I? yes! such I ween;
But they have vanish'd long, alas!
The visions of my youth have beenBut let them pass.
And, pride, what have I now with thee?
Another brow may even inherit
The venom thou hast pour'd on me
Be still, my spirit!
The happiest day- the happiest hour
Mine eyes shall see- have ever seen,
The brightest glance of pride and power,
I feel- have been:
But were that hope of pride and power
Now offer'd with the pain
Even then I felt- that brightest hour
I would not live again:
For on its wing was dark alloy,
And, as it flutter'd- fell
An essence- powerful to destroy
A soul that knew it well.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1243:To One In Paradise
Thou wast all that to me, love,
For which my soul did pineA green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
'On! on!'- but o'er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!
For, alas! alas! me
For me the light of Life is over!
'No more- no more- no more-'
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree
Or the stricken eagle soar!
And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy grey eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleamsIn what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1244:Do you know why teachers use me? Because I speak in tongues. I write metaphors. Every one of my stories is a metaphor you can remember. The great religions are all metaphor. We appreciate things like Daniel and the lion’s den, and the Tower of Babel. People remember these metaphors because they are so vivid you can’t get free of them and that’s what kids like in school. They read about rocket ships and encounters in space, tales of dinosaurs. All my life I’ve been running through the fields and picking up bright objects. I turn one over and say, Yeah, there’s a story. And that’s what kids like. Today, my stories are in a thousand anthologies. And I’m in good company. The other writers are quite often dead people who wrote in metaphors: Edgar Allan Poe, Herman Melville, Washington Irving, Nathaniel Hawthorne. All these people wrote for children. They may have pretended not to, but they did. ~ Ray Bradbury,
1245:THOU wast all that to me, love,
For which my soul did pine:
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
"On! on!"—but o'er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast.

For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o'er!
No more—no more—no more—
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar.

And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy gray eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams—
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1246:There was an epoch in the course of the general sentiment when the comet had attained, at length, a size surpassing that of any previously recorded visitation. The people now, dismissing any lingering hope that the astronomers were wrong, experienced all the certainty of evil. The chimerical aspect of their terror was gone. The hearts of the stoutest of our race beat violently within their bosoms. A very few days suffered, however, to merge even such feelings in sentiments more unendurable. We could no longer apply to the strange orb any accustomed thoughts. Its historical attributes had disappeared. It oppressed us with a hideous novelty of emotion. We saw it not as an astronomical phenomenon in the heavens, but as an incubus upon our hearts and a shadow upon our brains. It had taken, with unconceivable rapidity, the character of a gigantic mantle of rare flame, extending from horizon to horizon. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1247:To muse for long unwearied hours with my attention riveted to some frivolous device upon the margin, or in the typography of a book — to become absorbed for the better part of a summer's day in a quaint shadow falling aslant upon the tapestry, or upon the floor — to lose myself for an entire night in watching the steady flame of a lamp, or the embers of a fire — to dream away whole days over the perfume of a flower — to repeat monotonously some common word, until the sound, by dint of frequent repetition, ceased to convey any idea whatever to the mind — to lose all sense of motion or physical existence in a state of absolute bodily quiescence long and obstinately persevered in — Such were a few of the most common and least pernicious vagaries induced by a condition of the mental faculties, not, indeed, altogether unparalleled, but certainly bidding defiance to any thing like analysis or explanation. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1248:The poem, although widely differing in subject from any of Mrs. Lewis' prior compositions, and far superior to any of them in general vigor, artistic skill, and assured certainty of purpose, is nevertheless easily recognizable as the production of the same mind which originated "Florence" and "The Forsaken." We perceive, throughout, the same passion, the same enthusiasm, and the same seemingly reckless abandon of thought and manner which we have already mentioned as characterizing the writer. We should have spoken also, of a fastidious yet most sensitive and almost voluptuous sense of Beauty. These are the general traits of "The Child of the Sea:" but undoubtedly the chief value of the poem, to ordinary readers, will be found to lie in the aggregation of its imaginative passages—its quotable points. ~ Edgar Allan Poe, The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol.14 "Mrs. Lewis' Poems" Jno R. Thompson, McFarlane & Fergusson (1848).,
1249:To My Mother First published : 1849     A heartful sonnet written to Poe’s mother-in-law and aunt Maria Clemm, “To My Mother” says that the mother of the woman he loved is more important than his own mother. It was first published on July 7, 1849 in Flag of Our Union. It has alternately been published as “Sonnet to My Mother.”     Because I feel that, in the Heavens above, The angels, whispering to one another, Can find, among their burning terms of love, None so devotional as that of “Mother,” Therefore by that dear name I long have called you — You who are more than mother unto me, And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you In setting my Virginia’s spirit free. My mother — my own mother, who died early, Was but the mother of myself; but you Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, And thus are dearer than the mother I knew By that infinity with which my wife Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1250:Remorse
THE HORSE'S name was Remorse.
There were people said, 'Gee, what a nag!'
And they were Edgar Allan Poe bugs and so
They called him Remorse.
When he was a gelding
He flashed his heels to other ponies
And threw dust in the noses of other ponies
And won his first race and his second
And another and another and hardly ever
Came under the wire behind the other runners.
And so, Remorse, who is gone, was the hero of a play
By Henry Blossom, who is now gone.
What is there to a monicker? Call me anything.
A nut, a cheese, something that the cat brought in.
Nick me with any old name.
Class me up for a fish, a gorilla, a slant head, an egg, a ham.
Only ... slam me across the ears sometimes ... and hunt for a white star
In my forehead and twist the bang of my forelock around it.
Make a wish for me. Maybe I will light out like a streak of wind.
~ Carl Sandburg,
1251:After all, what is it?- this indescribable something which men will persist in terming "genius"? I agree with Buffon- with Hogarth- it is but diligence after all.
Look at me!- how I labored- how I toiled- how I wrote! Ye Gods, did I not write? I knew not the word "ease." By day I adhered to my desk, and at night, a pale student, I consumed the midnight oil. You should have seen me- you should. I leaned to the right. I leaned to the left. I sat forward. I sat backward. I sat tete baissee (as they have it in the Kickapoo), bowing my head close to the alabaster page. And, through all, I- wrote. Through joy and through sorrow, I-wrote. Through hunger and through thirst, I-wrote. Through good report and through ill report- I wrote. Through sunshine and through moonshine, I-wrote. What I wrote it is unnecessary to say. The style!- that was the thing. I caught it from Fatquack- whizz!- fizz!- and I am giving you a specimen of it now. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1252:W tej właśnie komnacie przyszedłem na świat. Z odmętów długiej nocy, która miała pozór, lecz nie była nicością, wyłoniłem się po to, aby wkroczyć nagle w krainę baśni, w pałacowe przepychy fantazji, w dziwaczne dziedziny myśli i wiedzy klasztornej. Nie dziw tedy, że przerażonym a płomiennym wzrokiem badałem świat dookolny, że dzieciństwo spędziłem wśród ksiąg, a młodość roztrwoniłem na marzeniach; lecz zastanawia ta okoliczność, że gdy lata upływały i południe dojrzałego wieku zastało mnie jeszcze żywcem w gnieździe mych przodków — zastanawia, powtarzam, ta okoliczność, że bijące źródła mojego życia zaprawiły się nagłym zastojem, że w kierunku najwłaściwszego mi myślenia stał się przewrót zupełny. Zjawiska rzeczywistości potrącały o mnie jak sny i tylko jako sny, podczas gdy szaleńcze pomysły z krainy snów stały się w zamian nie tylko strawą mego codziennego istnienia, lecz stanowczo jedynym i całkowitym istnieniem w samym sobie. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1253:A skillful literary artist has constructed a tale. If wise, he has not fashioned his thoughts to accommodate his incidents; but having conceived, with deliberate care, a certain unique or single effect to be wrought out, he then invents as may best aid him in establishing this preconceived effect. If his very initial sentence tend not to the outbringing of this effect, then he has failed in his first step. In the whole composition there should be no words written, of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is not to the one pre-established design. And by such means, with such care and skill, a picture is at length painted which leaves in the mind of him who contemplates it with a kindred art, a sense of the fullest satisfaction. The idea of the tale has been presented unblemished because undisturbed: and this is an end unattainable by the novel. Undue brevity is just as exceptionable here as in the poem; but undue length is yet more to be avoided. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1254:Serenade
So sweet the hour, so calm the time,
I feel it more than half a crime,
When Nature sleeps and stars are mute,
To mar the silence ev'n with lute.
At rest on ocean's brilliant dyes
An image of Elysium lies:
Seven Pleiades entranced in Heaven,
Form in the deep another seven:
Endymion nodding from above
Sees in the sea a second love.
Within the valleys dim and brown,
And on the spectral mountain's crown,
The wearied light is dying down,
And earth, and stars, and sea, and sky
Are redolent of sleep, as I
Am redolent of thee and thine
Enthralling love, my Adeline.
But list, O list,- so soft and low
Thy lover's voice tonight shall flow,
That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deem
My words the music of a dream.
Thus, while no single sound too rude
Upon thy slumber shall intrude,
Our thoughts, our souls- O God above!
In every deed shall mingle, love.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1255:I AM come of a race noted for vigor of fancy and ardor of passion. Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence--whether much that is glorious--whether all that is profound--does not spring from disease of thought--from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in waking, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil. They penetrate, however, rudderless or compassless into the vast ocean of the "light ineffable", and again, like the adventures of the Nubian geographer, "agressi sunt mare tenebrarum, quid in eo esset exploraturi".

We will say then, that I am mad. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1256:sobs” (sanglots). Some days I enter poetic melancholic states, what the Portuguese call saudade or the Turks hüzün (from the Arabic word for sadness). Other days I am more aggressive, have more energy—and will write less, walk more, do other things, argue with researchers, answer emails, draw graphs on blackboards. Should I be turned into a vegetable or a happy imbecile? Had Prozac been available last century, Baudelaire’s “spleen,” Edgar Allan Poe’s moods, the poetry of Sylvia Plath, the lamentations of so many other poets, everything with a soul would have been silenced. … If large pharmaceutical companies were able to eliminate the seasons, they would probably do so—for a profit, of course. There is another danger: in addition to harming children, we are harming society and our future. Measures that aim at reducing variability and swings in the lives of children are also reducing variability and differences within our said to be Great Culturally Globalized Society. ~ Nassim Nicholas Taleb,
1257:Bridal Ballad
The ring is on my hand,
And the wreath is on my brow;
Satin and jewels grand
Are all at my command,
And I am happy now.
And my lord he loves me well;
But, when first he breathed his vow,
I felt my bosom swellFor the words rang as a knell,
And the voice seemed his who fell
In the battle down the dell,
And who is happy now.
But he spoke to re-assure me,
And he kissed my pallid brow,
While a reverie came o'er me,
And to the church-yard bore me,
And I sighed to him before me,
Thinking him dead D'Elormie,
"Oh, I am happy now!"
And thus the words were spoken,
And this the plighted vow,
And, though my faith be broken,
And, though my heart be broken,
Here is a ring, as token
That I am happy now!
Would God I could awaken!
For I dream I know not how!
And my soul is sorely shaken
Lest an evil step be taken,Lest the dead who is forsaken
May not be happy now.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1258:A Valentine
For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly the lines! - they hold a treasure
Divine- a talisman- an amulet
That must be worn at heart. Search well the measureThe words- the syllables! Do not forget
The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor
And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
Which one might not undo without a sabre,
If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus
Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
Of poets, by poets- as the name is a poet's, too,
Its letters, although naturally lying
Like the knight Pinto- Mendez FerdinandoStill form a synonym for Truth- Cease trying!
You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1259:The Valley Of Unrest
Once it smiled a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell;
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
In the midst of which all day
The red sunlight lazily lay.
Now each visitor shall confess
The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionlessNothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas
Around the misty Hebrides!
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Uneasily, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eyeOver the lilies there that wave
And weep above a nameless grave!
They wave:- from out their fragrant tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep:- from off their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1260:Spirits Of The Dead
Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness- for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.
The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne'er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass.
The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1261:ONCE it smiled a silent dell         Where the people did not dwell;         They had gone unto the wars,         Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,         Nightly, from their azure towers,         To keep watch above the flowers,         In the midst of which all day         The red sunlight lazily lay.         Now each visitor shall confess         The sad valley’s restlessness.         Nothing there is motionless—         Nothing save the airs that brood         Over the magic solitude.         Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees         That palpitate like the chill seas         Around the misty Hebrides!         Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven         That rustle through the unquiet Heaven         Unceasingly, from morn till even,         Over the violets there that lie         In myriad types of the human eye—         Over the lilies there that wave         And weep above a nameless grave!         They wave:—from out their fragrant tops         Eternal dews come down in drops.         They weep:—from off their delicate stems         Perennial tears descend in gems. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1262:The Forest Reverie
'Tis said that when
The hands of men
Tamed this primeval wood,
And hoary trees with groans of woe,
Like warriors by an unknown foe,
Were in their strength subdued,
The virgin Earth Gave instant birth
To springs that ne'er did flow
That in the sun Did rivulets run,
And all around rare flowers did blow
The wild rose pale Perfumed the gale
And the queenly lily adown the dale
(Whom the sun and the dew
And the winds did woo),
With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew.
So when in tears
The love of years
Is wasted like the snow,
And the fine fibrils of its life
By the rude wrong of instant strife
Are broken at a blow
Within the heart
Do springs upstart
Of which it doth now know,
And strange, sweet dreams,
Like silent streams
That from new fountains overflow,
With the earlier tide
Of rivers glide
Deep in the heart whose hope has died-Quenching the fires its ashes hide,-Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
Sweet flowers, ere long,
The rare and radiant flowers of song!
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1263:Sonnet Suggested By Homer, Chaucer, Shakespeare,
Edgar Allan Poe, Paul Vakzy, James Joyce, Et Al.
Let me not, ever, to the marriage in Cana
Of Galilee admit the slightest sentiment
Of doubt about the astonishing and sustaining manna
Of chance and choice to throw a shadow's element
Of disbelief in truth -- Love is not love
Nor is the love of love its truth in consciousness
If it can be made hesitant by any crow or dove or
seeming angel or demon from above or from below
Or made more than it is knows itself to be by the authority
of any ministry of love.
O no -- it is the choice of chances and the chancing of
all choice -- the wine
which was the water may be sickening, unsatisfying or
sour
A new barbiturate drawn from the fattest flower
That prospers green on Lethe's shore. For every hour
Denies or once again affirms the vow and the ultimate
tower
Of aspiration which made Ulysses toil so far away from
home
And then, for years, strive against every wanton desire,
sea and fire, to return across the.
ever-threatening seas
A journey forever far beyond all the vivid eloquence
of every poet and all poetry.
~ Delmore Schwartz,
1264:Sippy had described them as England's premier warts, and it looked to me as if he might be about right. Professor Pringle was a thinnish, baldish, dyspeptic-lookingish cove with an eye like a haddock, while Mrs Pringle's aspect was that of one who had had bad news round about the year 1900 and never really got over it. And I was just staggering under the impact of these two when I was introduced to a couple of ancient females with shawls all over them.
"No doubt you remember my mother?" said Professor Pringle mournfully, indicating Exhibit A.
"Oh - ah!" I said, achieving a bit of a beam.
"And my aunt," sighed the Prof, as if things were getting worse and worse.
"Well, well, well!" I said shooting another beam in the direction of Exhibit B.
"They were saying only this morning that they remembered you," groaned the Prof, abandoning all hope.
There was a pause. The whole strength of the company gazed at me like a family group out of one of Edgar Allan Poe's less cheery yarns, and I felt my joie de vivre dying at the roots.
"I remember Oliver," said Exhibit A. She heaved a sigh. "He was such a pretty child. What a pity! What a pity!"
Tactful, of course, and calculated to put the guest completely at his ease. ~ P G Wodehouse,
1265:The Conqueror Worm Lo! 'tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres. Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly— Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Wo! That motley drama—oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore, By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. But see, amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And the angels sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued. Out—out are the lights—out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, And the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, "Man," And its hero the Conqueror Worm. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1266:To -- -Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
In the mad pride of intellectuality,
Maintained "the power of words"- denied that ever
A thought arose within the human brain
Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:
And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
Two words- two foreign soft dissyllablesItalian tones, made only to be murmured
By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew
That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,"
Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions
Than even seraph harper, Israfel,
(Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,")
Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.
The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.
With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee,
I cannot write- I cannot speak or thinkAlas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling,
This standing motionless upon the golden
Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams.
Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,
And thrilling as I see, upon the right,
Upon the left, and all the way along,
Amid empurpled vapors, far away
To where the prospect terminates- thee only.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1267:During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was--but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasureable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me--upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain--upon the bleak walls--upon the vacant eye-like windows--upon a few rank sedges--and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees--with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium--the bitter lapse into everyday life--the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart--an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1268:We have a task before us which must be speedily performed. We know that it will be ruinous to make delay. The most important crisis of our life calls, trumpet-tongued, for immediate energy and action. We glow, we are consumed with eagerness to commence the work, with the anticipation of whose glorious result our whole souls are on fire. It must, it shall be undertaken to-day, and yet we put it off until to-morrow; and why? There is no answer, except that we feel perverse, using the word with no comprehension of the principle. To-morrow arrives, and with it a more impatient anxiety to do our duty, but with this very increase of anxiety arrives, also, a nameless, a positively fearful, because unfathomable, craving for delay. This craving gathers strength as the moments fly. The last hour for action is at hand. We tremble with the violence of the conflict within us, — of the definite with the indefinite — of the substance with the shadow. But, if the contest have proceeded thus far, it is the shadow which prevails, — we struggle in vain. The clock strikes, and is the knell of our welfare. At the same time, it is the chanticleer-note to the ghost that has so long overawed us. It flies — it disappears — we are free. The old energy returns. We will labor now. Alas, it is too late! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1269:How shall the burial rite be read? The solemn song be sung? The requiem for the loveliest dead, That ever died so young?   Her friends are gazing on her, And on her gaudy bier, And weep! — oh! to dishonor Dead beauty with a tear!   They loved her for her wealth — And they hated her for her pride — But she grew in feeble health, And they love her — that she died.   They tell me (while they speak Of her “costly broider’d pall”) That my voice is growing weak — That I should not sing at all —   Or that my tone should be Tun’d to such solemn song So mournfully — so mournfully, That the dead may feel no wrong.   But she is gone above, With young Hope at her side, And I am drunk with love Of the dead, who is my bride. —   Of the dead — dead who lies All perfum’d there, With the death upon her eyes, And the life upon her hair.   Thus on the coffin loud and long I strike — the murmur sent Through the grey chambers to my song, Shall be the accompaniment.   Thou died’st in thy life’s June — But thou did’st not die too fair: Thou did’st not die too soon, Nor with too calm an air.   From more than fiends on earth, Thy life and love are riven, To join the untainted mirth Of more than thrones in heaven —   Therefore, to thee this night I will no requiem raise, But waft thee on thy flight, With a Pæan of old days.   ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1270:The Count of Monte Cristo, Edgar Allan Poe, Robinson Crusoe, Ivanhoe, Gogol, The Last of the Mohicans, Dickens, Twain, Austen, Billy Budd…By the time I was twelve, I was picking them out myself, and my brother Suman was sending me the books he had read in college: The Prince, Don Quixote, Candide, Le Morte D’Arthur, Beowulf, Thoreau, Sartre, Camus. Some left more of a mark than others. Brave New World founded my nascent moral philosophy and became the subject of my college admissions essay, in which I argued that happiness was not the point of life. Hamlet bore me a thousand times through the usual adolescent crises. “To His Coy Mistress” and other romantic poems led me and my friends on various joyful misadventures throughout high school—we often sneaked out at night to, for example, sing “American Pie” beneath the window of the captain of the cheerleading team. (Her father was a local minister and so, we reasoned, less likely to shoot.) After I was caught returning at dawn from one such late-night escapade, my worried mother thoroughly interrogated me regarding every drug teenagers take, never suspecting that the most intoxicating thing I’d experienced, by far, was the volume of romantic poetry she’d handed me the previous week. Books became my closest confidants, finely ground lenses providing new views of the world. ~ Paul Kalanithi,
1271:When Dad pulled up in front of the house, the three of us sat still for a moment and stared at the gloomy pile of bricks my great-aunt called home. Up close, it looked even worse than it had from a distance. Ivy clung to the walls, spreading over windows and doors. A wisteria vine heavy with bunches of purple blossoms twisted around the porch columns. Paint peeled, loose shutters banged in the wind, slates from the roof littered the overgrown lawn.
Charles Addams would have loved it. So would Edgar Allan Poe. But not me. No, sir, definitely not me. Just looking at the place made my skin prickle.
Dad was the first to speak. “This is your ancestral home, Drew,” he said, once more doing his best to sound excited. “It was built by your great-great-grandfather way back in 1865, right after the Civil War. Tylers have lived here ever since.”
While Dad babbled about family history and finding your roots and things like that, I let my thoughts drift to Camp Tecumseh again. Maybe Martin wasn’t so bad after all, maybe he and I could have come to terms this summer, maybe we--
My fantasies were interrupted by Great-aunt Blythe. Flinging the front door open, she came bounding down the steps. The wind ballooned her T-shirt and swirled her gray hair. If she spread her arms, she might fly up into the sky like Mary Poppins. ~ Mary Downing Hahn,
1272:You say, 'Can you hint to me what was "that terrible evil" which caused the "irregularities" so profoundly lamented? Yes, I can do more than hint. This 'evil' was the greatest which can befall a man. Six years ago, a wife whom I loved as no man ever loved before, ruptured a blood-vessel in singing. Her life was despaired of. I took leave of her forever, and underwent all the agonies of her death. She recovered partially, and I again hoped. At the end of a year, the vessel broke again. I went through precisely the same scene.... Then again—again— and even once again at varying intervals. Each time I felt all the agonies of her death—and at each accession of the disorder I loved her more dearly and clung to her life with more desperate pertinacity. But I am constitutionally sensitive—nervous in a very unusual degree. I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity. During these fits of absolute unconsciousness, I drank—God only knows how often or how much. As a matter of course, my enemies referred the insanity to the drink rather than the drink to the insanity. I had, indeed, nearly abandoned all hope of a permanent cure, when I found one in the death of my wife. This I can and do endure as becomes a man. It was the horrible never-ending oscillation between hope and despair which I could not longer have endured, without total loss of reason. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1273:Southern Literary Messenger, that old Village denizen Edgar Allan Poe had made a different kind of prophetic guess. As an attempt pre-emptively to render redundant most of the nonsense that would be written about Dylan and poetry, it has not been bettered. There are few cases in which mere popularity should be considered a proper test of merit; but the case of song-writing is, I think, one of the few. In speaking of song-writing, I mean, of course, the composition of brief poems with an eye to their adaptation for music in the vulgar sense. In this ultimate destination of the song proper, lies its essence — its genius. It is the strict reference to music — it is the dependence upon modulated expression — which gives to this branch of letters a character altogether unique, and separates it, in great measure and in a manner not sufficiently considered, from ordinary literature; rendering it independent of merely ordinary proprieties; allowing it, and in fact demanding for it, a wide latitude of Law; absolutely insisting upon a certain wild license and indefinitiveness — an indefinitiveness recognized by every musician who is not a mere fiddler, as an important point in the philosophy of his science — as the soul, indeed, of the sensations derivable from its practice — sensations which bewilder while they enthral — and which would not so enthral if they did not so bewilder. ~ Anonymous,
1274:Fairy-Land
Dim vales- and shadowy floodsAnd cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can't discover
For the tears that drip all over!
Huge moons there wax and waneAgain- again- againEvery moment of the nightForever changing placesAnd they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial,
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down- still down- and down,
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain's eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may beO'er the strange woods- o'er the seaOver spirits on the wingOver every drowsy thingAnd buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of lightAnd then, how deep!- O, deep!
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like- almost anythingOr a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as beforeVidelicet, a tentWhich I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
41
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again,
(Never-contented things!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1275:The Conqueror Worm
Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither flyMere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!
That motley drama- oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out- out are the lights- out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
85
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, 'Man,'
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1276:The truth is, everyone likes to look down on someone. If your favorites are all avant-garde writers who throw in Sanskrit and German, you can look down on everyone. If your favorites are all Oprah Book Club books, you can at least look down on mystery readers. Mystery readers have sci-fi readers. Sci-fi can look down on fantasy. And yes, fantasy readers have their own snobbishness. I’ll bet this, though: in a hundred years, people will be writing a lot more dissertations on Harry Potter than on John Updike. Look, Charles Dickens wrote popular fiction. Shakespeare wrote popular fiction—until he wrote his sonnets, desperate to show the literati of his day that he was real artist. Edgar Allan Poe tied himself in knots because no one realized he was a genius. The core of the problem is how we want to define “literature”. The Latin root simply means “letters”. Those letters are either delivered—they connect with an audience—or they don’t. For some, that audience is a few thousand college professors and some critics. For others, its twenty million women desperate for romance in their lives. Those connections happen because the books successfully communicate something real about the human experience. Sure, there are trashy books that do really well, but that’s because there are trashy facets of humanity. What people value in their books—and thus what they count as literature—really tells you more about them than it does about the book. ~ Brent Weeks,
1277:They soon began plying me with questions about America and American writers. Like most educated Europeans they knew more about American literature than I ever will. Antoniou had been to America several times, had walked about the streets of New York, Boston, New Orleans, San Francisco and other ports. The thought of him walking about the streets of our big cities in bewilderment led me to broach the name of Sherwood Anderson whom I always think of as the one American writer of our time who has walked the streets of our American cities as a genuine poet. Since they scarcely knew his name, and since the conversation was already veering towards more familiar ground, namely Edgar Allan Poe, a subject I am weary of listening to, I suddenly became obsessed with the idea of selling them Sherwood Anderson. I began a monologue myself for a change—about writers who walk the streets in America and are not recognized until they are ready for the grave. I was so enthusiastic about the subject that I actually identified myself with Sherwood Anderson. He would probably have been astounded had he heard of the exploits I was crediting him with. I’ve always had a particular weakness for the author of "Many Marriages." In my worst days in America he was the man who comforted me, by his writings. It was only the other day that I met him for the first time. I found no discrepancy between the man and the writer. I saw in him the born story teller, the man who can make even the egg triumphant. ~ Henry Miller,
1278:A Paean
How shall the burial rite be read?
The solemn song be sung?
The requiem for the loveliest dead,
That ever died so young?
II.
Her friends are gazing on her,
And on her gaudy bier,
And weep! - oh! to dishonor
Dead beauty with a tear!
III.
They loved her for her wealth And they hated her for her pride But she grew in feeble health,
And they love her - that she died.
IV.
They tell me (while they speak
Of her 'costly broider'd pall')
That my voice is growing weak That I should not sing at all V.
Or that my tone should be
Tun'd to such solemn song
So mournfully - so mournfully,
That the dead may feel no wrong.
VI.
But she is gone above,
With young Hope at her side,
And I am drunk with love
Of the dead, who is my bride. -
12
VII.
Of the dead - dead who lies
All perfum'd there,
With the death upon her eyes,
And the life upon her hair.
VIII.
Thus on the coffin loud and long
I strike - the murmur sent
Through the grey chambers to my song,
Shall be the accompaniment.
IX.
Thou died'st in thy life's June But thou did'st not die too fair:
Thou did'st not die too soon,
Nor with too calm an air.
X.
From more than fiends on earth,
Thy life and love are riven,
To join the untainted mirth
Of more than thrones in heaven XII.
Therefore, to thee this night
I will no requiem raise,
But waft thee on thy flight,
With a Pæan of old days.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1279:Israfel
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
"Whose heart-strings are a lute";
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.
Tottering above
In her highest noon,
The enamored moon
Blushes with love,
While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven,)
Pauses in Heaven.
And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli's fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and singsThe trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.
But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a dutyWhere Love's a grown-up GodWhere the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in a star.
Therefore thou art not wrong,
Israfeli, who despisest
An unimpassioned song;
To thee the laurels belong,
Best bard, because the wisest!
Merrily live, and long!
54
The ecstasies above
With thy burning measures suitThy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervor of thy luteWell may the stars be mute!
Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely- flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.
If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1280:Dreams
Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
My spirit not awakening, till the beam
Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
Yes! tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
'Twere better than the cold reality
Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.
But should it be- that dream eternally
Continuing- as dreams have been to me
In my young boyhood- should it thus be given,
'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.
For I have revell'd, when the sun was bright
I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light
And loveliness,- have left my very heart
In climes of my imagining, apart
From mine own home, with beings that have been
Of mine own thought- what more could I have seen?
'Twas once- and only once- and the wild hour
From my remembrance shall not pass- some power
Or spell had bound me- 'twas the chilly wind
Came o'er me in the night, and left behind
Its image on my spirit- or the moon
Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
Too coldly- or the stars- howe'er it was
That dream was as that night-wind- let it pass.
I have been happy, tho' in a dream.
I have been happy- and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life,
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality, which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love- and all our own!
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1281:Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded –with what caution –with what foresight –with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it –oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly –very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! –would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously –oh, so cautiously –cautiously (for the hinges creaked) –I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights –every night just at midnight –but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1282:It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1283:Annabel Lee
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than loveI and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and meYes! - that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than weOf many far wiser than weAnd neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
29
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1284:The Haunted Palace
In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palaceRadiant palace- reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominionIt stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This- all this- was in the olden
Time long ago,)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.
Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well-befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!- for never morrow
90
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh- but smile no more.
-THE END.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1285:We stand upon the brink of a precipice. We peer into the abyss—we grow sick and dizzy. Our first impulse is to shrink from the danger. Unaccountably we remain. By slow degrees our sickness and dizziness and horror become merged in a cloud of unnamable feeling. By gradations, still more imperceptible, this cloud assumes shape, as did the vapor from the bottle out of which arose the genius in the Arabian Nights. But out of this our cloud upon the precipice’s edge, there grows into palpability, a shape, far more terrible than any genius or any demon of a tale, and yet it is but a thought, although a fearful one, and one which chills the very marrow of our bones with the fierceness of the delight of its horror. It is merely the idea of what would be our sensations during the sweeping precipitancy of a fall from such a height. And this fall—this rushing annihilation—for the very reason that it involves that one most ghastly and loathsome of all the most ghastly and loathsome images of death and suffering which have ever presented themselves to our imagination—for this very cause do we now the most vividly desire it. And because our reason violently deters us from the brink, therefore do we the most impetuously approach it. There is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of him who, shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a Plunge. To indulge, for a moment, in any attempt at thought, is to be inevitably lost; for reflection but urges us to forbear, and therefore it is, I say, that we cannot. If there be no friendly arm to check us, or if we fail in a sudden effort to prostrate ourselves backward from the abyss, we plunge, and are destroyed. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1286:Lenore
Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll!- a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?- weep now or nevermore!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read- the funeral song be sung!An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so youngA dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.
"Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her- that she died!
How shall the ritual, then, be read?- the requiem how be sung
By you- by yours, the evil eye,- by yours, the slanderous tongue
That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"
Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong.
The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy
bride.
For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes
The life still there, upon her hair- the death upon her eyes.
"Avaunt! avaunt! from fiends below, the indignant ghost is rivenFrom Hell unto a high estate far up within the HeavenFrom grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of
Heaven!
Let no bell toll, then,- lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damned Earth!
And I!- to-night my heart is light!- no dirge will I upraise,
But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days!"
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1287:I.
In the greenest of our valleys,
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace -
Radiant palace - reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion -
It stood there !
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair.
II.
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow;
(This - all this - was in the olden
Time long ago)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.
III.
Wanderers in that happy valley
Through two luminous windows saw
Spirits moving musically
To a lute's well-tunéd law,
Round about a throne, where sitting
(Porphyrogene !)
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
IV.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
V.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate ;
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate !)
And, round about his home, the glory
That blushed and bloomed
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
VI.
And travellers now within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows, see
Vast forms that move fantastically
To a discordant melody ;
While, like a rapid ghastly river,
Through the pale door,
A hideous throng rush out forever,
And laugh - but smile no more. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1288:To Isadore
I.
Beneath the vine-clad eaves,
Whose shadows fall before
Thy lowly cottage door-Under the lilac's tremulous leaves-Within thy snowy clasped hand
The purple flowers it bore.
Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,
Like queenly nymph from Fairy-land-Enchantress of the flowery wand,
Most beauteous Isadore!
II.
And when I bade the dream
Upon thy spirit flee,
Thy violet eyes to me
Upturned, did overflowing seem
With the deep, untold delight
Of Love's serenity;
Thy classic brow, like lilies white
And pale as the Imperial Night
Upon her throne, with stars bedight,
Enthralled my soul to thee!
III.
Ah! ever I behold
Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,
Blue as the languid skies
Hung with the sunset's fringe of gold;
Now strangely clear thine image grows,
And olden memories
Are startled from their long repose
Like shadows on the silent snows
When suddenly the night-wind blows
Where quiet moonlight lies.
IV.
Like music heard in dreams,
Like strains of harps unknown,
Of birds for ever flown,-Audible as the voice of streams
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That murmur in some leafy dell,
I hear thy gentlest tone,
And Silence cometh with her spell
Like that which on my tongue doth dwell,
When tremulous in dreams I tell
My love to thee alone!
V.
In every valley heard,
Floating from tree to tree,
Less beautiful to me,
The music of the radiant bird,
Than artless accents such as thine
Whose echoes never flee!
Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:-For uttered in thy tones benign
(Enchantress!) this rude name of mine
Doth seem a melody!
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1289:In The Greenest Of Our Valleys
I.
In the greenest of our valleys,
By good angels tenanted,
Once fair and stately palace -Radiant palace --reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion -It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair.
II.
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow;
(This --all this --was in the olden
Time long ago)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odour went away.
III.
Wanderers in that happy valley
Through two luminous windows saw
Spirits moving musically
To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne, where sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
IV.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
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V.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate;
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)
And, round about his home, the glory
That blushed and bloomed
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
VI.
And travellers now within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows, see
Vast forms that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a rapid ghastly river,
Through the pale door,
A hideous throng rush out forever,
And laugh --but smile no more.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1290:Suffice it to say I was compelled to create this group in order to find everyone who is, let's say, borrowing liberally from my INESTIMABLE FOLIO OF CANONICAL MASTERPIECES (sorry, I just do that sometimes), and get you all together. It's the least I could do.

I mean, seriously. Those soliloquies in Moby-Dick? Sooo Hamlet and/or Othello, with maybe a little Shylock thrown in. Everyone from Pip in Great Expectations to freakin' Mr. Rochester in Jane Eyre mentions my plays, sometimes completely mangling my words in nineteenth-century middle-American dialect for humorous effect (thank you, Sir Clemens). Many people (cough Virginia Woolf cough) just quote me over and over again without attribution. I hear James Joyce even devoted a chapter of his giant novel to something called the "Hamlet theory," though do you have some sort of newfangled English? It looks like gobbledygook to me. The only people who don't seek me out are like Chaucer and Dante and those ancient Greeks. For whatever reason.

And then there are the titles. The Sound and the Fury? Mine. Infinite Jest? Mine. Proust, Nabokov, Steinbeck, and Agatha Christie all have titles that are me-inspired. Brave New World? Not just the title, but half the plot has to do with my work. Even Edgar Allan Poe named a character after my Tempest's Prospero (though, not surprisingly, things didn't turn out well for him!). I'm like the star to every wandering bark, the arrow of every compass, the buzzard to every hawk and gillyflower ... oh, I don't even know what I'm talking about half the time. I just run with it, creating some of the SEMINAL TOURS DE FORCE OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. You're welcome. ~ Sarah Schmelling,
1291:Stanzas
How often we forget all time, when lone
Admiring Nature's universal throne;
Her woods- her wilds- her mountains- the intense
Reply of HERS to OUR intelligence! [BYRON, The Island.]
In youth have I known one with whom the Earth
In secret communing held- as he with it,
In daylight, and in beauty from his birth:
Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
A passionate light- such for his spirit was fitAnd yet that spirit knew not, in the hour
Of its own fervor what had o'er it power.
II
Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o'er,
But I will half believe that wild light fraught
With more of sovereignty than ancient lore
Hath ever told- or is it of a thought
The unembodied essence, and no more,
That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass
As dew of the night-time o'er the summer grass?
III
Doth o'er us pass, when, as th' expanding eye
To the loved object- so the tear to the lid
Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
And yet it need not be- (that object) hid
From us in life- but common- which doth lie
Each hour before us- but then only, bid
With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken,
To awake us- 'Tis a symbol and a token
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IV
Of what in other worlds shall be- and given
In beauty by our God, to those alone
Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven
Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone,
That high tone of the spirit which hath striven,
Tho' not with Faith- with godliness- whose throne
With desperate energy 't hath beaten down;
Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1292:in the under or mystic current of its meaning, I fancied that I perceived, and for the first time, a full consciousness on the part of Usher, of the tottering of his lofty reason upon her throne. The verses, which were entitled "The Haunted Palace," ran very nearly, if not accurately, thus: I. In the greenest of our valleys, By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace— Radiant palace—reared its head. In the monarch Thought's dominion— It stood there! Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair. II. Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow; (This—all this—was in the olden Time long ago) And every gentle air that dallied, In that sweet day, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A winged odor went away. III. Wanderers in that happy valley Through two luminous windows saw Spirits moving musically To a lute's well-tunéd law, Round about a throne, where sitting (Porphyrogene!) In state his glory well befitting, The ruler of the realm was seen. IV. And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door, Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty Was but to sing, In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king. V. But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch's high estate; (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow Shall dawn upon him, desolate!) And, round about his home, the glory That blushed and bloomed Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed. VI. And travellers now within that valley, Through the red-litten windows, see Vast forms that move fantastically To a discordant melody; While, like a rapid ghastly river, Through the pale door, A hideous throng rush out forever, And laugh—but smile no more. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1293:In Youth I Have Known One
How often we forget all time, when lone
Admiring Nature's universal throne;
Her woods - her winds - her mountains - the intense
Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!
I.
In youth I have known one with whom the Earth
In secret communing held - as he with it,
In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth:
Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
A passionate light - such for his spirit was fit And yet that spirit knew - not in the hour
Of its own fervour - what had o'er it power.
II.
Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o'er,
But I will half believe that wild light fraught
With more of sovereignty than ancient lore
Hath ever told - or is it of a thought
The unembodied essence, and no more
That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass
As dew of the night time, o'er the summer grass?
III.
Doth o'er us pass, when as th' expanding eye
To the loved object - so the tear to the lid
Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
And yet it need not be - (that object) hid
From us in life - but common - which doth lie
Each hour before us - but then only bid
With a strange sound, as of a harpstring broken
T' awake us - 'Tis a symbol and a token IV.
52
Of what in other worlds shall be - and given
In beauty by our God, to those alone
Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven
Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone,
That high tone of the spirit which hath striven
Though not with Faith - with godliness - whose throne
With desperate energy 't hath beaten down;
Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1294:The City In The Sea
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters he.
No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silentlyGleams up the pinnacles far and freeUp domes- up spires- up kingly hallsUp fanes- up Babylon-like wallsUp shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowersUp many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.
There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eyeNot the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass-
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No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier seaNo heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.
But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave- there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tideAs if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glowThe hours are breathing faint and lowAnd when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1295:Dreamland
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim ThuleFrom a wild clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE- out of TIME.
Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the tears that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters- lone and dead,Their still waters- still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.
By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,By the mountains- near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,By the grey woods,- by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encampBy the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,By each spot the most unholyIn each nook most melancholyThere the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the PastShrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer byWhite-robed forms of friends long given,
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In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven.
For the heart whose woes are legion
'Tis a peaceful, soothing regionFor the spirit that walks in shadow
'Tis- oh, 'tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not- dare not openly view it!
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1296:The City Of Sin
LO! Death hath rear'd himself a throne
In a strange city, all alone,
Far down within the dim west —
Where the good, and the bad, and the worst, and the best,
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines, and palaces, and towers
Are — not like any thing of ours —
Oh no! — O no! — ours never loom
To heaven with that ungodly gloom!
Time-eaten towers that tremble not!
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
No holy rays from heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town,
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently —
Up thrones — up long-forgotten bowers
Of scultur'd ivy and stone flowers —
Up domes — up spires — up kingly halls —
Up fanes — up Babylon-like walls —
Up many a melancholy shrine
Whose entablatures intertwine
The mask — the viol — and the vine.
There open temples — open graves
Are on a level with the waves —
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eye,
Not the gaily-jewell'd dead
Tempt the waters from their bed:
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass —
No swellings hint that winds may be
Upon a far-off happier sea:
So blend the turrets and shadows there
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That all seem pendulous in air,
While from the high towers of the town
Death looks gigantically down.
But lo! a stir is in the air!
The wave — there is a ripple there!
As if the towers had thrown aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide —
As if the turret-tops had given
A vacuum in the filmy heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow —
The very hours are breathing low —
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down, that town shall settle hence,
All Hades, from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence,
And Death to some more happy clime
Shall give his undivided time.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1297:A thought expressed is a falsehood." In poetry what is not said and yet gleams through the beauty of the symbol, works more powerfully on the heart than that which is expressed in words. Symbolism makes the very style, the very artistic substance of poetry inspired, transparent, illuminated throughout like the delicate walls of an alabaster amphora in which a flame is ignited.

Characters can also serve as symbols. Sancho Panza and Faust, Don Quixote and Hamlet, Don Juan and Falstaff, according to the words of Goethe, are "schwankende Gestalten."

Apparitions which haunt mankind, sometimes repeatedly from age to age, accompany mankind from generation to generation. It is impossible to communicate in any words whatsoever the idea of such symbolic characters, for words only define and restrict thought, but symbols express the unrestricted aspect of truth.

Moreover we cannot be satisfied with a vulgar, photographic exactness of experimental photoqraphv. We demand and have premonition of, according to the allusions of Flaubert, Maupassant, Turgenev, Ibsen, new and as yet undisclosed worlds of impressionability. This thirst for the unexperienced, in pursuit of elusive nuances, of the dark and unconscious in our sensibility, is the characteristic feature of the coming ideal poetry. Earlier Baudelaire and Edgar Allan Poe said that the beautiful must somewhat amaze, must seem unexpected and extraordinary. French critics more or less successfully named this feature - impressionism.

Such are the three major elements of the new art: a mystical content, symbols, and the expansion of artistic impressionability.

No positivistic conclusions, no utilitarian computation, but only a creative faith in something infinite and immortal can ignite the soul of man, create heroes, martyrs and prophets... People have need of faith, they need inspiration, they crave a holy madness in their heroes and martyrs.

("On The Reasons For The Decline And On The New Tendencies In Contemporary Literature") ~ Dmitry Merezhkovsky,
1298:The Coliseum
Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length- at length- after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!
Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
I feel ye now- I feel ye in your strengthO spells more sure than e'er Judaean king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
The swift and silent lizard of the stones!
But stay! these walls- these ivy-clad arcadesThese moldering plinths- these sad and blackened shaftsThese vague entablatures- this crumbling friezeThese shattered cornices- this wreck- this ruinThese stones- alas! these grey stones- are they allAll of the famed, and the colossal left
By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?
'Not all'- the Echoes answer me- 'not all!
Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
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As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
We rule the hearts of mightiest men- we rule
With a despotic sway all giant minds.
We are not impotent- we pallid stones.
Not all our power is gone- not all our fameNot all the magic of our high renownNot all the wonder that encircles usNot all the mysteries that in us lieNot all the memories that hang upon
And cling around about us as a garment,
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.'
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1299:The faculty of re-solution is possibly much invigorated by mathematical study, and especially by that highest branch of it which, unjustly, and merely on account of its retrograde operations, has been called, as if par excellence, analysis. Yet to calculate is not in itself to analyse. A chess-player, for example, does the one without effort at the other. It follows that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental character, is greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a treatise, but simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observations very much at random; I will, therefore, take occasion to assert that the higher powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more usefully tasked by the unostentatious game of draughts than by a the elaborate frivolity of chess. In this latter, where the pieces have different and bizarre motions, with various and variable values, what is only complex is mistaken (a not unusual error) for what is profound. The attention is here called powerfully into play. If it flag for an instant, an oversight is committed resulting in injury or defeat. The possible moves being not only manifold but involute, the chances of such oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases out of ten it is the more concentrative rather than the more acute player who conquers. In draughts, on the contrary, where the moves are unique and have but little variation, the probabilities of inadvertence are diminished, and the mere attention being left comparatively unemployed, what advantages are obtained by either party are obtained by superior acumen. To be less abstract, let us suppose a game of draughts where the pieces are reduced to four kings, and where, of course, no oversight is to be expected. It is obvious that here the victory can be decided (the players being at all equal) only by some recherché movement, the result of some strong exertion of the intellect. Deprived of ordinary resources, the analyst throws himself into the spirit of his opponent, identifies himself therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a glance, the sole methods (sometime indeed absurdly simple ones) by which he may seduce into error or hurry into miscalculation. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1300:The Sleeper
At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin molders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!- and lo! where lies
Irene, with her Destinies!
O, lady bright! can it be rightThis window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice dropThe bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully- so fearfullyAbove the closed and fringed lid
'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
That, o'er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come O'er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress,
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all solemn silentness!
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
97
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfoldSome vault that oft has flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o'er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funeralsSome sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stoneSome tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne'er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1301:DURING the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was; but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me—upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain—upon the bleak walls—upon the vacant eye-like windows—upon a few rank sedges—and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees—with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveler upon opium—the bitter lapse into every-day life—the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart—an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime. What was it—I paused to think—what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher? It was a mystery all insoluble; nor could I grapple with the shadowy fancies that crowded upon me as I pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory conclusion that while, beyond doubt, there are combinations of very simple natural objects which have the power of thus affecting us, still the analysis of this power lies among considerations beyond our depth. It was possible, I reflected, that a mere different arrangement of the particulars of the scene, of the details of the picture, would be sufficient to modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for sorrowful impression; and, acting upon this idea, I reined my horse to the precipitous brink of a black and lurid tarn that lay in unruffled luster by the dwelling, and gazed down—but with a shudder even more thrilling than before—upon the remodeled and inverted images of the gray sedge, and the ghastly tree stems, and the vacant and eye-like windows. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1302:DREAMLAND             BY a route obscure and lonely,             Haunted by ill angels only,             Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,             On a black throne reigns upright,             I have reached these lands but newly             From an ultimate dim Thule— From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime                 Out of SPACE—out of TIME.             Bottomless vales and boundless floods,             And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods             With forms that no man can discover             For the dews that drip all over; WHERE AN EIDOLON NAMED NIGHT ON A BLACK THRONE REIGNS UPRIGHT         Mountains toppling evermore         Into seas without a shore;         Seas that restlessly aspire,         Surging, unto skies of fire;         Lakes that endlessly outspread         Their lone waters—lone and dead,         Their still waters—still and chilly         With the snows of the lolling lily.         By the lakes that thus outspread         Their lone waters, lone and dead,—         Their sad waters, sad and chilly         With the snows of the lolling lily,—         By the mountains—near the river         Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—         By the grey woods,—by the swamp         Where the toad and the newt encamp,—         By the dismal tarns and pools                 Where dwell the Ghouls,—         By each spot the most unholy—         In each nook most melancholy,—         There the traveller meets aghast         Sheeted Memories of the Past—         Shrouded forms that start and sigh         As they pass the wanderer by—         White-robed forms of friends long given,         In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.         For the heart whose woes are legion         ’Tis a peaceful, soothing region—         For the spirit that walks in shadow         ’Tis—oh, ’tis an Eldorado!         But the traveller, travelling through it,         May not—dare not openly view it;         Never its mysteries are exposed         To the weak human eye unclosed;         So wills its King, who hath forbid         The uplifting of the fringèd lid;         And thus the sad Soul that here passes         Beholds it but through darkened glasses.         By a route obscure and lonely,         Haunted by ill angels only,         Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,         On a black throne reigns upright,         I have wandered home but newly         From this ultimate dim Thule. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1303:The Village Street
In these rapid, restless shadows,
Once I walked at eventide,
When a gentle, silent maiden,
Walked in beauty at my side.
She alone there walked beside me
All in beauty, like a bride.
Pallidly the moon was shining
On the dewy meadows nigh;
On the silvery, silent rivers,
On the mountains far and high,-On the ocean's star-lit waters,
Where the winds a-weary die.
Slowly, silently we wandered
From the open cottage door,
Underneath the elm's long branches
To the pavement bending o'er;
Underneath the mossy willow
And the dying sycamore.
With the myriad stars in beauty
All bedight, the heavens were seen,
Radiant hopes were bright around me,
Like the light of stars serene;
Like the mellow midnight splendor
Of the Night's irradiate queen.
Audibly the elm-leaves whispered
Peaceful, pleasant melodies,
Like the distant murmured music
Of unquiet, lovely seas;
While the winds were hushed in slumber
In the fragrant flowers and trees.
Wondrous and unwonted beauty
Still adorning all did seem,
While I told my love in fables
'Neath the willows by the stream;
Would the heart have kept unspoken
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Love that was its rarest dream!
Instantly away we wandered
In the shadowy twilight tide,
She, the silent, scornful maiden,
Walking calmly at my side,
With a step serene and stately,
All in beauty, all in pride.
Vacantly I walked beside her.
On the earth mine eyes were cast;
Swift and keen there came unto me
Bitter memories of the past-On me, like the rain in Autumn
On the dead leaves, cold and fast.
Underneath the elms we parted,
By the lowly cottage door;
One brief word alone was uttered-Never on our lips before;
And away I walked forlornly,
Broken-hearted evermore.
Slowly, silently I loitered,
Homeward, in the night, alone;
Sudden anguish bound my spirit,
That my youth had never known;
Wild unrest, like that which cometh
When the Night's first dream hath flown.
Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper
Mad, discordant melodies,
And keen melodies like shadows
Haunt the moaning willow trees,
And the sycamores with laughter
Mock me in the nightly breeze.
Sad and pale the Autumn moonlight
Through the sighing foliage streams;
And each morning, midnight shadow,
Shadow of my sorrow seems;
Strive, O heart, forget thine idol!
101
And, O soul, forget thy dreams!
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1304:For Annie
Thank Heaven! the crisisThe danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at lastAnd the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.
Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full lengthBut no matter!-I feel
I am better at length.
And I rest so composedly,
Now, in my bed
That any beholder
Might fancy me deadMight start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.
The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:- ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!
The sickness- the nauseaThe pitiless painHave ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brainWith the fever called "Living"
That burned in my brain.
And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated- the terrible
Torture of thirst
43
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:I have drunk of a water
That quenches all thirst:Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under groundFrom a cavern not very far
Down under ground.
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bedAnd, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its rosesIts old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:
For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansiesA rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansiesWith rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.
And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of AnnieDrowned in a bath
44
Of the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breastDeeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harmTo the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me deadAnd I rest so contentedly,
Now, in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)
That you fancy me deadThat you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead.
But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with AnnieIt glows with the light
Of the love of my AnnieWith the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1305:I have just spoken of that morbid condition of the auditory nerve which rendered all music intolerable to the sufferer, with the exception of certain effects of stringed instruments. It was, perhaps, the narrow limits to which he thus confined himself upon the guitar which gave birth, in great measure, to the fantastic character of his performances. But the fervid facility of his impromptus could not be so accounted for. They must have been, and were, in the notes, as well as in the words of his wild fantasies (for he not unfrequently accompanied himself with rhymed verbal improvisations), the result of that intense mental collectedness and concentration to which I have previously alluded as observable only in particular moments of the highest artificial excitement. The words of one of these rhapsodies I have easily remembered. I was, perhaps, the more forcibly impressed with it as he gave it, because, in the under or mystic current of its meaning, I fancied that I perceived, and for the first time, a full consciousness on the part of Usher of the tottering of his lofty reason upon her throne. The verses, which were entitled “The Haunted Palace,” ran very nearly, if not accurately, thus:— I. In the greenest of our valleys, By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace— Radiant palace—reared its head. In the monarch Thought’s dominion— It stood there! Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair. II. Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow (This—all this—was in the olden Time long ago); And every gentle air that dallied, In that sweet day, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A winged odor went away. III. Wanderers in that happy valley Through two luminous windows saw Spirits moving musically To a lute’s well-timed law; Round about a throne, where sitting (Porphyrogene!) In state his glory well befitting, The ruler of the realm was seen. IV. And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door, Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty Was but to sing, In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king. V. But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch’s high estate; (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow Shall dawn upon him, desolate!) And, round about his home, the glory That blushed and bloomed Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed. VI. And travellers now within that valley, Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms that move fantastically To a discordant melody; While, like a rapid ghastly river, Through the pale door; A hideous throng rush out forever, And laugh—but smile no more. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1306:Zekice bir kitap yazmışsın, Bon-Bon,” diye devam etti Majesteleri, dostumuzun omzuna, o verilen emri tam anlamıyla yerine getirdikten sonra bardağını bırakırken hafifçe, bilgiç bir tavırla vurarak. “Kesinlikle zekice bir kitap. Tam benim sevdiğim türden bir eser. Ancak özdeğe ilişkin tasarımın geliştirilebilir ve fikirlerinin pek çoğu bana Aristoteles’i anımsatıyor. O filozof en yakın tanıdıklarımdan biriydi. Onu hem korkunç huysuzluğundan, hem de pot kırmak gibi eğlenceli bir yönünden dolayı severdim. Bütün o yazdıkları arasında tek bir somut gerçek var ki, onun ipucunu da kendisinin absürdlüğünü sevdiğim için ben verdim. Pierre Bon-Bon, hangi yüce ahlâki gerçekten bahsettiğimi biliyorsun sanırım, değil mi?”

“Bildiğimi söyleyemem –”

“Evet! – Aristoteles’e insanların hapşırırken gereksiz fikirleri burunlarından dışarı attığını söyleyen bendim.”

“Bu –hık!– gerçekten de doğru,” dedi metafizikçi, kendisine bir bardak daha Mousseux koyarken ve ziyaretçisinin parmaklarına enfiye kutusunu sunarken.

“Platon’a da,” diye devam etti Majesteleri, enfiye kutusunu ve içerdiği iltifatı alçakgönüllülükle geri çevirerek, “Platon’a da bir zamanlar arkadaşça hisler beslemiştim. Platon’la tanıştın mı Bon-Bon? – Ah! Hayır, binlerce kez özür dilerim. Benimle bir gün Atina’da, Parthenon’da karşılaştı ve bana bir fikirden bunaldığını söyledi. Ona ο νους εδτιv αυλος‘yu* yazmasını önerdim. Bunu yapacağını söyleyip eve gitti, ben de piramitlere çıktım. Ama vicdanım beni bir arkadaşa bile olsa birine gerçeği söylediğim için kınadı ve apar topar Atina’ya geri dönüp ‘αυλος’yu yazarken filozofun sandalyesinin arkasında durdum. Kağıda parmağımla dokunarak ters çevirdim. Böylece cümle şimdi ‘ο νους εδτιv αυγος’** olarak okunuyor ve gördüğün gibi, metafiziğinin temel doktrini.”

“Hiç Roma’da bulundunuz mu?” diye sordu restaurateur, ikinci Mousseux şişesini bitirdikten sonra dolaptan büyük bir şişe Chambertin alırken.

“Sadece bir kez, sevgili Bon-Bon, sadece bir kez. Bir ara” –dedi Şeytan, sanki bir kitaptan okurcasına– “bir ara beş yıllık bir anarşi dönemi olmuştu ve o sırada bütün memurlarından yoksun kalan cumhuriyetin halkın seçtiklerinden başka yargıcı yoktu. Bunlar da yasal idari yetkiye sahip değildi – o zaman, Mösyö Bon-Bon – yalnızca o zaman Roma’daydım ve bu yüzden onun felsefesine ilişkin dünyevi bir tanıdığım yok.”

“Epicurus hakkında ne –hık!– ne düşünüyorsunuz?”

“Kimin hakkında?” dedi şeytan şaşkınlıkla, “Epicurus’ta kusur bulmak istiyor olamazsın! Epicurus hakkında ne düşünüyormuşum! Beni mi kastediyorsunuz bayım? – Epicurus benim. Diogenes Laertes tarafından adı anılan üç yüz bilimsel incelemenin herbirini yazan filozof benim.”

* Ruh bir flüttür.
** Ruh parlak bir ışıktır. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1307:To Helen

I saw thee once-once only-years ago;
I must not say how many-but not many.
It was a july midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber
Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe-
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light
Thier odorous souls in an ecstatic death-
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted by thee, by the poetry of thy prescence.

Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
I saw thee half reclining; while the moon
Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses
And on thine own, upturn'd-alas, in sorrow!

Was it not Fate that, on this july midnight-
Was it not Fate (whose name is also sorrow)
That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footstep stirred; the hated world all slept,
Save only thee and me. (Oh Heaven- oh, God! How my heart beats in coupling those two worlds!)
Save only thee and me. I paused- I looked-
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)

The pearly lustre of the moon went out;
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses' odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All- all expired save thee- save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes-
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
I saw but them- they were the world to me.
I saw but them- saw only them for hours-
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How daring an ambition!yet how deep-
How fathomless a capacity for love!

But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
Into western couch of thunder-cloud;
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained.
They would not go- they never yet have gone.
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since.

They follow me- they lead me through the years.
They are my ministers- yet I thier slave
Thier office is to illumine and enkindle-
My duty, to be saved by thier bright light,
And purified in thier electric fire,
And sanctified in thier Elysian fire.
They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),
And are far up in heaven- the stars I kneel to
In the sad, silent watches of my night;
While even in the meridian glare of day
I see them still- two sweetly scintillant
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1308:I saw thee once - only once - years ago:
I must not say how many - but not many.
It was a July midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber,
Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared stir, unless on tiptoe -
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death -
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That smiled and died in the parterre, enchanted
By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.

Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
I saw thee half reclining; while the moon
Fell upon the upturn'd faces of the roses,
And on thine own, upturn'd - alas, in sorrow!

Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight -
Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,)
That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footsteps stirred: the hated world all slept,
Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven! - oh, G**!
How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)
Save only thee and me. I paused - I looked -
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind the garden was enchanted!)
The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses' odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All - all expired save thee - save less than thou:
Save only divine light in thine eyes -
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
I saw but them - they were the world to me.
I saw but them - saw only them for hours -
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
How dark a wo! yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How daring an ambition! yet how deep -
How fathomless a capacity for love!
But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained.
They would not go - they never yet have gone.
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since.
They follow me - they lead me through the years.
They are my ministers - yet I their slave.
Their office is to illumine and enkindle -
My duty, to be saved by their bright fire,
And purified in their electric fire,
And sanctified in their elysian fire.
They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope,)
And are far up in Heaven - the stars I kneel to
In the sad, silent watches of my night;
While even in the meridian glare of day
I see them still - two sweetly scintillant
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun! ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1309:To Helen - 1848
I saw thee once- once only- years ago:
I must not say how many- but not many.
It was a July midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber,
Upon the upturned faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoeFell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic deathFell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.
Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
I saw thee half reclining; while the moon
Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses,
And on thine own, upturn'd- alas, in sorrow!
Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnightWas it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,)
That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footstep stirred: the hated world an slept,
Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven!- oh, God!
How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)
Save only thee and me. I paused- I lookedAnd in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses' odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All- all expired save thee- save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes-
111
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
I saw but them- they were the world to me!
I saw but them- saw only them for hours,
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to he enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How daring an ambition; yet how deepHow fathomless a capacity for love!
But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained;
They would not go- they never yet have gone;
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since;
They follow me- they lead me through the years.
They are my ministers- yet I their slave.
Their office is to illumine and enkindleMy duty, to be saved by their bright light,
And purified in their electric fire,
And sanctified in their elysian fire.
They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),
And are far up in Heaven- the stars I kneel to
In the sad, silent watches of my night;
While even in the meridian glare of day
I see them still- two sweetly scintillant
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1310:It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea."

"It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1311:Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door —
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore —
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore —
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door —
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; —
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"— here I opened wide the door; —
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" —
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore —
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; —
'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door —
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door —
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore —
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning— little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door —
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1312:Apollo Musagete, Poetry, And The Leader Of The
Muses
Nothing is given which is not taken.
Little or nothing is taken which is not freely desired,
freely, truly and fully.
"You would not seek me if you had not found me": this is
true of all that is supremely desired and admired...
"An enigma is an animal," said the hurried, harried
schoolboy:
And a horse divided against itself cannot stand;
And a moron is a man who believes in having too many
wives: what harm is there in that?
O the endless fecundity of poetry is equaled
By its endless inexhaustible freshness, as in the discovery
of America and of poetry.
Hence it is clear that the truth is not strait and narrow but infinite:
All roads lead to Rome and to poetry
and to poem, sweet poem
and from, away and towards are the same typography.
Hence the poet must be, in a way, stupid and naive and a
little child;
Unless ye be as a little child ye cannot enter the kingdom
of poetry.
Hence the poet must be able to become a tiger like Blake; a
carousel like Rilke.
Hence he must be all things to be free, for all impersonations
a doormat and a monument
to all situations possible or actual
11
The cuckold, the cuckoo, the conqueror, and the coxcomb.
It is to him in the zoo that the zoo cries out and the hyena:
"Hello, take off your hat, king of the beasts, and be seated,
Mr. Bones."
And hence the poet must seek to be essentially anonymous.
He must die a little death each morning.
He must swallow his toad and study his vomit
as Baudelaire studied la charogne of Jeanne Duval.
The poet must be or become both Keats and Renoir and
Keats as Renoir.
Mozart as Figaro and Edgar Allan Poe as Ophelia, stoned
out of her mind
drowning in the river called forever river and ever...
Keats as Mimi, Camille, and an aging gourmet.
He must also refuse the favors of the unattainable lady
(As Baudelaire refused Madame Sabatier when the fair
blonde summoned him,
For Jeanne Duval was enough and more than enough,
although she cuckolded him
With errand boys, servants, waiters; reality was Jeanne Duval.
Had he permitted Madame Sabatier to teach the poet a greater whiteness,
His devotion and conception of the divinity of Beauty
would have suffered an absolute diminution.)
The poet must be both Casanova and St. Anthony,
He must be Adonis, Nero, Hippolytus, Heathcliff, and
Phaedre,
Genghis Kahn, Genghis Cohen, and Gordon Martini
Dandy Ghandi and St. Francis,
Professor Tenure, and Dizzy the dean and Disraeli of Death.
He would have worn the horns of existence upon his head,
He would have perceived them regarding the looking-glass,
He would have needed them the way a moose needs a hatrack;
Above his heavy head and in his loaded eyes, black and scorched,
12
He would have seen the meaning of the hat-rack, above the glass
Looking in the dark foyer.
For the poet must become nothing but poetry,
He must be nothing but a poem when he is writing
Until he is absent-minded as the dead are
Forgetful as the nymphs of Lethe and a lobotomy...
("the fat weed that rots on Lethe wharf").
~ Delmore Schwartz,
1313:The Bells
Hear the sledges with the bellsSilver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bellsFrom the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II
Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And an in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells,bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
74
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III
Hear the loud alarum bellsBrazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor,
Now- now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows:
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bellsOf the bellsOf the bells, bells, bells,bells,
Bells, bells, bellsIn the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
IV
Hear the tolling of the bells-
75
Iron Bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people- ah, the peopleThey that dwell up in the steeple,
All Alone
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stoneThey are neither man nor womanThey are neither brute nor humanThey are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bellsOf the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bellsOf the bells, bells, bellsTo the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bellsOf the bells, bells, bells:
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bellsBells, bells, bells-
76
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1314:To -- -- --. Ulalume: A Ballad
The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sereThe leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of WeirIt was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
Here once, through an alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my SoulOf cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
There were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that rollAs the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the poleThat groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.
Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sereOur memories were treacherous and sereFor we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber(Though once we had journeyed down here),
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
And now, as the night was senescent,
And star-dials pointed to mornAs the star-dials hinted of mornAt the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn-
105
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.
And I said- 'She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighsShe revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion,
To point us the path to the skiesTo the Lethean peace of the skiesCome up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyesCome up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes.'
But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said- 'Sadly this star I mistrustHer pallor I strangely mistrust:Oh, hasten!- oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly!- let us fly!- for we must.'
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dustIn agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dustTill they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
I replied- 'This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sybilic splendor is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty to-night:See!- it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us arightWe safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.'
Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloomAnd conquered her scruples and gloom;
106
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tombBy the door of a legended tomb;
And I said- 'What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?'
She replied- 'Ulalume- Ulalume'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!'
Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sereAs the leaves that were withering and sereAnd I cried- 'It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed- I journeyed down hereThat I brought a dread burden down hereOn this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of AuberThis misty mid region of WeirWell I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.'
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1315:Ulalume
The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
Here once, through an alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.
Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere Our memories were treacherous and sere, For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year (Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber (Though once we had journey down here),
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
And now, as the night was senescent,
And star-dials pointed to morn As the star-dials hinted of morn At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn -
122
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.
And I said - "She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighs She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion
To point us the path to the skies To the Lethean peace of the skies Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes."
But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said - "Sadly this star I mistrust Her pallor I strangely mistrust: Oh, hasten! - oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly! - let us fly! - for we must."
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dust In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
I replied - "This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sybilic splendor is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty to-night! See! - it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright We safely may trust to a gleaming,
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."
Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom And conquered her scruples and gloom;
123
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said - "What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?"
She replied - "Ulalume - Ulalume ‘Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"
Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sere As the leaves that were withering and sere,
And I cried - "It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed - I journeyed down here That I brought a dread burden down here!
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber This misty mid region of Weir Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1316:I

Hear the sledges with the bells -
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.


II

Hear the mellow wedding bells -
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight! -
From the molten - golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle - dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! - how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!


III

Hear the loud alarum bells -
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now - now to sit, or never,
By the side of the pale - faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear, it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells -
Of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
In the clamor and the clanging of the bells!


IV

Hear the tolling of the bells -
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people - ah, the people -
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone -
They are neither man nor woman -
They are neither brute nor human -
They are Ghouls: -
And their king it is who tolls: -
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells: -
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells: -
To the sobbing of the bells: -
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells -
To the tolling of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells, -
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1317:The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
''Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'tapping at my chamber doorOnly this, and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost LenoreFor the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name LenoreNameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
''Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber doorSome late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;This it is, and nothing more.'
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
'Sir,' said I, 'or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you'- here I opened wide the door;Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 'Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 'Lenore!'Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
'Surely,' said I, 'surely that is something at my window lattice:
93
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery exploreLet my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;'Tis the wind and nothing more.'
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and
flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed
he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber doorPerched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber doorPerched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, 'art sure no
craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shoreTell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber doorBird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as 'Nevermore.'
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he flutteredTill I scarcely more than muttered, 'other friends have flown
beforeOn the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, 'Nevermore.'
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
'Doubtless,' said I, 'what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden boreTill the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never- nevermore'.'
94
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and
door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yoreWhat this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking 'Nevermore.'
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
'Wretch,' I cried, 'thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he
hath sent thee
Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'
'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or
devil!Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchantedOn this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I imploreIs there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'
'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or
devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adoreTell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name LenoreClasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'
'Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend,' I shrieked,
upstarting-
95
'Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my
door!'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the
floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted- nevermore!
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1318:Tamerlane
Kind solace in a dying hour!
Such, father, is not (now) my themeI will not madly deem that power
Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
Unearthly pride hath revell'd inI have no time to dote or dream:
You call it hope- that fire of fire!
It is but agony of desire:
If I can hope- Oh God! I canIts fount is holier- more divineI would not call thee fool, old man,
But such is not a gift of thine.
Know thou the secret of a spirit
Bow'd from its wild pride into shame.
O yearning heart! I did inherit
Thy withering portion with the fame,
The searing glory which hath shone
Amid the jewels of my throne,
Halo of Hell! and with a pain
Not Hell shall make me fear againO craving heart, for the lost flowers
And sunshine of my summer hours!
The undying voice of that dead time,
With its interminable chime,
Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
Upon thy emptiness- a knell.
I have not always been as now:
The fever'd diadem on my brow
I claim'd and won usurpinglyHath not the same fierce heirdom given
Rome to the Caesar- this to me?
The heritage of a kingly mind,
And a proud spirit which hath striven
Triumphantly with human kind.
On mountain soil I first drew life:
The mists of the Taglay have shed
67
Nightly their dews upon my head,
And, I believe, the winged strife
And tumult of the headlong air
Have nestled in my very hair.
So late from Heaven- that dew- it fell
(Mid dreams of an unholy night)
Upon me with the touch of Hell,
While the red flashing of the light
From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er,
Appeared to my half-closing eye
The pageantry of monarchy,
And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar
Came hurriedly upon me, telling
Of human battle, where my voice,
My own voice, silly child!- was swelling
(O! how my spirit would rejoice,
And leap within me at the cry)
The battle-cry of Victory!
The rain came down upon my head
Unshelter'd- and the heavy wind
Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.
It was but man, I thought, who shed
Laurels upon me: and the rushThe torrent of the chilly air
Gurgled within my ear the crush
Of empires- with the captive's prayerThe hum of suitors- and the tone
Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne.
My passions, from that hapless hour,
Usurp'd a tyranny which men
Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power,
My innate nature- be it so:
But father, there liv'd one who, then,
Then- in my boyhood- when their fire
Burn'd with a still intenser glow,
(For passion must, with youth, expire)
E'en then who knew this iron heart
In woman's weakness had a part.
68
I have no words- alas!- to tell
The loveliness of loving well!
Nor would I now attempt to trace
The more than beauty of a face
Whose lineaments, upon my mind,
Are- shadows on th' unstable wind:
Thus I remember having dwelt
Some page of early lore upon,
With loitering eye, till I have felt
The letters- with their meaning- melt
To fantasies- with none.
O, she was worthy of all love!
Love- as in infancy was mine'Twas such as angel minds above
Might envy; her young heart the shrine
On which my every hope and thought
Were incense- then a goodly gift,
For they were childish and uprightPure- as her young example taught:
Why did I leave it, and, adrift,
Trust to the fire within, for light?
We grew in age- and love- together,
Roaming the forest, and the wild;
My breast her shield in wintry weatherAnd when the friendly sunshine smil'd,
And she would mark the opening skies,
I saw no Heaven- but in her eyes.
Young Love's first lesson is- the heart:
For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles,
When, from our little cares apart,
And laughing at her girlish wiles,
I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,
And pour my spirit out in tearsThere was no need to speak the restNo need to quiet any fears
Of her- who ask'd no reason why,
But turn'd on me her quiet eye!
Yet more than worthy of the love
69
My spirit struggled with, and strove,
When, on the mountain peak, alone,
Ambition lent it a new toneI had no being- but in thee:
The world, and all it did contain
In the earth- the air- the seaIts joy- its little lot of pain
That was new pleasure- the ideal,
Dim vanities of dreams by nightAnd dimmer nothings which were real(Shadows- and a more shadowy light!)
Parted upon their misty wings,
And, so, confusedly, became
Thine image, and- a name- a name!
Two separate- yet most intimate things.
I was ambitious- have you known
The passion, father? You have not:
A cottager, I mark'd a throne
Of half the world as all my own,
And murmur'd at such lowly lotBut, just like any other dream,
Upon the vapour of the dew
My own had past, did not the beam
Of beauty which did while it thro'
The minute- the hour- the day- oppress
My mind with double loveliness.
We walk'd together on the crown
Of a high mountain which look'd down
Afar from its proud natural towers
Of rock and forest, on the hillsThe dwindled hills! begirt with bowers,
And shouting with a thousand rills.
I spoke to her of power and pride,
But mystically- in such guise
That she might deem it nought beside
The moment's converse; in her eyes
I read, perhaps too carelesslyA mingled feeling with my own-
70
The flush on her bright cheek, to me
Seem'd to become a queenly throne
Too well that I should let it be
Light in the wilderness alone.
I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then,
And donn'd a visionary crownYet it was not that Fantasy
Had thrown her mantle over meBut that, among the rabble- men,
Lion ambition is chained downAnd crouches to a keeper's handNot so in deserts where the grandThe wild- the terrible conspire
With their own breath to fan his fire.
Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!
Is not she queen of Earth? her pride
Above all cities? in her hand
Their destinies? in all beside
Of glory which the world hath known
Stands she not nobly and alone?
Falling- her veriest stepping-stone
Shall form the pedestal of a throneAnd who her sovereign? Timour- he
Whom the astonished people saw
Striding o'er empires haughtily
A diadem'd outlaw!
O, human love! thou spirit given
On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
Which fall'st into the soul like rain
Upon the Siroc-wither'd plain,
And, failing in thy power to bless,
But leav'st the heart a wilderness!
Idea! which bindest life around
With music of so strange a sound,
And beauty of so wild a birthFarewell! for I have won the Earth.
When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could see
No cliff beyond him in the sky,
71
His pinions were bent droopinglyAnd homeward turn'd his soften'd eye.
'Twas sunset: when the sun will part
There comes a sullenness of heart
To him who still would look upon
The glory of the summer sun.
That soul will hate the ev'ning mist,
So often lovely, and will list
To the sound of the coming darkness (known
To those whose spirits hearken) as one
Who, in a dream of night, would fly
But cannot from a danger nigh.
What tho' the moon- the white moon
Shed all the splendour of her noon,
Her smile is chilly, and her beam,
In that time of dreariness, will seem
(So like you gather in your breath)
A portrait taken after death.
And boyhood is a summer sun
Whose waning is the dreariest oneFor all we live to know is known,
And all we seek to keep hath flownLet life, then, as the day-flower, fall
With the noon-day beauty- which is all.
I reach'd my home- my home no more
For all had flown who made it so.
I pass'd from out its mossy door,
And, tho' my tread was soft and low,
A voice came from the threshold stone
Of one whom I had earlier knownO, I defy thee, Hell, to show
On beds of fire that burn below,
A humbler heart- a deeper woe.
Father, I firmly do believeI know- for Death, who comes for me
From regions of the blest afar,
Where there is nothing to deceive,
Hath left his iron gate ajar,
And rays of truth you cannot see
72
Are flashing thro' EternityI do believe that Eblis hath
A snare in every human pathElse how, when in the holy grove
I wandered of the idol, Love,
Who daily scents his snowy wings
With incense of burnt offerings
From the most unpolluted things,
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
Above with trellis'd rays from Heaven,
No mote may shun- no tiniest flyThe lightning of his eagle eyeHow was it that Ambition crept,
Unseen, amid the revels there,
Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
In the tangles of Love's very hair?
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1319:Al Aaraaf
PART I
O! nothing earthly save the ray
(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye,
As in those gardens where the day
Springs from the gems of CircassyO! nothing earthly save the thrill
Of melody in woodland rillOr (music of the passion-hearted)
Joy's voice so peacefully departed
That like the murmur in the shell,
Its echo dwelleth and will dwellOh, nothing of the dross of oursYet all the beauty- all the flowers
That list our Love, and deck our bowersAdorn yon world afar, afarThe wandering star.
'Twas a sweet time for Nesace- for there
Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
Near four bright suns- a temporary restAn oasis in desert of the blest.
Away- away- 'mid seas of rays that roll
Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soulThe soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)
Can struggle to its destin'd eminence,To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode
And late to ours, the favor'd one of GodBut, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm,
She throws aside the sceptre- leaves the helm,
And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.
Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,
Whence sprang the 'Idea of Beauty' into birth,
(Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star,
Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar,
It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt)
She looked into Infinity- and knelt.
15
Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curledFit emblems of the model of her worldSeen but in beauty- not impeding sight
Of other beauty glittering thro' the lightA wreath that twined each starry form around,
And all the opal'd air in color bound.
All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
Of flowers: of lilies such as rear'd the head
On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang
So eagerly around about to hang
Upon the flying footsteps of- deep prideOf her who lov'd a mortal- and so died.
The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
Upreared its purple stem around her knees:And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'dInmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'd
All other loveliness:- its honied dew
(The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)
Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven,
And fell on gardens of the unforgiven
In Trebizond- and on a sunny flower
So like its own above that, to this hour,
It still remaineth, torturing the bee
With madness, and unwonted reverie:
In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf
And blossom of the fairy plant in grief
Disconsolate linger- grief that hangs her head,
Repenting follies that full long have Red,
Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
Like guilty beauty, chasten'd and more fair:
Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:
And Clytia, pondering between many a sun,
While pettish tears adown her petals run:
And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth,
And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,
Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing
Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:
And Valisnerian lotus, thither flown'
From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:
And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante!
16
Isola d'oro!- Fior di Levante!
And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever
With Indian Cupid down the holy riverFair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given
To bear the Goddess' song, in odors, up to Heaven:
'Spirit! that dwellest where,
In the deep sky,
The terrible and fair,
In beauty vie!
Beyond the line of blueThe boundary of the star
Which turneth at the view
Of thy barrier and thy barOf the barrier overgone
By the comets who were cast
From their pride and from their throne
To be drudges till the lastTo be carriers of fire
(The red fire of their heart)
With speed that may not tire
And with pain that shall not partWho livest- that we knowIn Eternity- we feelBut the shadow of whose brow
What spirit shall reveal?
Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace,
Thy messenger hath known
Have dream'd for thy Infinity
A model of their ownThy will is done, O God!
The star hath ridden high
Thro' many a tempest, but she rode
Beneath thy burning eye;
And here, in thought, to theeIn thought that can alone
Ascend thy empire and so be
A partner of thy throneBy winged Fantasy,
My embassy is given,
Till secrecy shall knowledge be
In the environs of Heaven.'
17
She ceas'd- and buried then her burning cheek
Abash'd, amid the lilies there, to seek
A shelter from the fervor of His eye;
For the stars trembled at the Deity.
She stirr'd not- breath'd not- for a voice was there
How solemnly pervading the calm air!
A sound of silence on the startled ear
Which dreamy poets name 'the music of the sphere.'
Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call
'Silence'- which is the merest word of all.
All Nature speaks, and ev'n ideal things
Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wingsBut ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high
The eternal voice of God is passing by,
And the red winds are withering in the sky:'What tho 'in worlds which sightless cycles run,
Linked to a little system, and one sunWhere all my love is folly and the crowd
Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,
The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath(Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?)
What tho' in worlds which own a single sun
The sands of Time grow dimmer as they run,
Yet thine is my resplendency, so given
To bear my secrets thro' the upper Heaven!
Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,
With all thy train, athwart the moony skyApart- like fire-flies in Sicilian night,
And wing to other worlds another light!
Divulge the secrets of thy embassy
To the proud orbs that twinkle- and so be
To ev'ry heart a barrier and a ban
Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!'
Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,
The single-mooned eve!- on Earth we plight
Our faith to one love- and one moon adoreThe birth-place of young Beauty had no more.
As sprang that yellow star from downy hours
Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,
18
And bent o'er sheeny mountains and dim plain
Her way, but left not yet her Therasaean reign.
PART II
High on a mountain of enamell'd headSuch as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
With many a mutter'd 'hope to be forgiven'
What time the moon is quadrated in HeavenOf rosy head that, towering far away
Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray
Of sunken suns at eve- at noon of night,
While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger lightUprear'd upon such height arose a pile
Of gorgeous columns on th' unburthen'd air,
Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile
Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,
And nursled the young mountain in its lair.
Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall
Thro' the ebon air, besilvering the pall
Of their own dissolution, while they dieAdorning then the dwellings of the sky.
A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,
Sat gently on these columns as a crownA window of one circular diamond, there,
Look'd out above into the purple air,
And rays from God shot down that meteor chain
And hallow'd all the beauty twice again,
Save, when, between th' empyrean and that ring,
Some eager spirit Flapp'd his dusky wing.
But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen
The dimness of this world: that greyish green
That Nature loves the best Beauty's grave
Lurk'd in each cornice, round each architraveAnd every sculptur'd cherub thereabout
That from his marble dwelling peered out,
Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his nicheAchaian statues in a world so rich!
Friezes from Tadmor and PersepolisFrom Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss
19
Of beautiful Gomorrah! O, the wave
Is now upon thee- but too late to save!
Sound loves to revel in a summer night:
Witness the murmur of the grey twilight
That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco,
Of many a wild star-gazer long agoThat stealeth ever on the ear of him
Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim,
And sees the darkness coming as a cloudIs not its form- its voice- most palpable and loud?
But what is this?- it cometh, and it brings
A music with it- 'tis the rush of wingsA pause- and then a sweeping, falling strain
And Nesace is in her halls again.
From the wild energy of wanton haste
Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;
And zone that clung around her gentle waist
Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.
Within the centre of that hall to breathe,
She paused and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,
The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair
And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there.
Young flowers were whispering in melody
To happy flowers that night- and tree to tree;
Fountains were gushing music as they fell
In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell;
Yet silence came upon material thingsFair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wingsAnd sound alone that from the spirit sprang
Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:
''Neath the blue-bell or streamerOr tufted wild spray
That keeps, from the dreamer,
The moonbeam awayBright beings! that ponder,
With half closing eyes,
On the stars which your wonder
Hath drawn from the skies,
20
Till they glance thro' the shade, and
Come down to your brow
Like- eyes of the maiden
Who calls on you nowArise! from your dreaming
In violet bowers,
To duty beseeming
These star-litten hoursAnd shake from your tresses
Encumber'd with dew
The breath of those kisses
That cumber them too(O! how, without you, Love!
Could angels be blest?)
Those kisses of true Love
That lull'd ye to rest!
Up!- shake from your wing
Each hindering thing:
The dew of the nightIt would weigh down your flight
And true love caressesO, leave them apart!
They are light on the tresses,
But lead on the heart.
Ligeia! Ligeia!
My beautiful one!
Whose harshest idea
Will to melody run,
O! is it thy will
On the breezes to toss?
Or, capriciously still,
Like the lone Albatros,
Incumbent on night
(As she on the air)
To keep watch with delight
On the harmony there?
Ligeia! wherever
Thy image may be,
No magic shall sever
Thy music from thee.
21
Thou hast bound many eyes
In a dreamy sleepBut the strains still arise
Which thy vigilance keepThe sound of the rain,
Which leaps down to the flowerAnd dances again
In the rhythm of the showerThe murmur that springs
From the growing of grass
Are the music of thingsBut are modell'd, alas!Away, then, my dearest,
Oh! hie thee away
To the springs that lie clearest
Beneath the moon-rayTo lone lake that smiles,
In its dream of deep rest,
At the many star-isles
That enjewel its breastWhere wild flowers, creeping,
Have mingled their shade,
On its margin is sleeping
Full many a maidSome have left the cool glade, and
Have slept with the beeArouse them, my maiden,
On moorland and leaGo! breathe on their slumber,
All softly in ear,
Thy musical number
They slumbered to hearFor what can awaken
An angel so soon,
Whose sleep hath been taken
Beneath the cold moon,
As the spell which no slumber
Of witchery may test,
The rhythmical number
Which lull'd him to rest?'
Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,
22
A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro',
Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flightSeraphs in all but 'Knowledge,' the keen light
That fell, refracted, thro' thy bounds, afar,
O Death! from eye of God upon that star:
Sweet was that error- sweeter still that deathSweet was that error- even with us the breath
Of Science dims the mirror of our joyTo them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroyFor what (to them) availeth it to know
That Truth is Falsehood- or that Bliss is Woe?
Sweet was their death- with them to die was rife
With the last ecstasy of satiate lifeBeyond that death no immortalityBut sleep that pondereth and is not 'to be'!And there- oh! may my weary spirit dwellApart from Heaven's Eternity- and yet how far from Hell!
What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim,
Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?
But two: they fell: for Heaven no grace imparts
To those who hear not for their beating hearts.
A maiden-angel and her seraph-loverO! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)
Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?
Unguided Love hath fallen- 'mid 'tears of perfect moan.'
He was a goodly spirit- he who fell:
A wanderer by moss-y-mantled wellA gazer on the lights that shine aboveA dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:
What wonder? for each star is eye-like there,
And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hairAnd they, and ev'ry mossy spring were holy
To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.
The night had found (to him a night of woe)
Upon a mountain crag, young AngeloBeetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
Here sat he with his love- his dark eye bent
With eagle gaze along the firmament:
Now turn'd it upon her- but ever then
It trembled to the orb of EARTH again.
23
'Ianthe, dearest, see- how dim that ray!
How lovely 'tis to look so far away!
She seem'd not thus upon that autumn eve
I left her gorgeous halls- nor mourn'd to leave.
That eve- that eve- I should remember wellThe sun-ray dropp'd in Lemnos, with a spell
On th' arabesque carving of a gilded hall
Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wallAnd on my eyelids- O the heavy light!
How drowsily it weigh'd them into night!
On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran
With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:
But O that light!- I slumber'd- Death, the while,
Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle
So softly that no single silken hair
Awoke that slept- or knew that he was there.
'The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon
Was a proud temple call'd the Parthenon;
More beauty clung around her column'd wall
Than ev'n thy glowing bosom beats withal,
And when old Time my wing did disenthral
Thence sprang I- as the eagle from his tower,
And years I left behind me in an hour.
What time upon her airy bounds I hung,
One half the garden of her globe was flung
Unrolling as a chart unto my viewTenantless cities of the desert too!
Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,
And half I wish'd to be again of men.'
'My Angelo! and why of them to be?
A brighter dwelling-place is here for theeAnd greener fields than in yon world above,
And woman's loveliness- and passionate love.'
'But, list, Ianthe! when the air so soft
Fail'd, as my pennon'd spirit leapt aloft,
Perhaps my brain grew dizzy- but the world
I left so late was into chaos hurl'dSprang from her station, on the winds apart.
And roll'd, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.
24
Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar
And fell- not swiftly as I rose before,
But with a downward, tremulous motion thro'
Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!
Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
For nearest of all stars was thine to oursDread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,
A red Daedalion on the timid Earth.'
'We came- and to thy Earth- but not to us
Be given our lady's bidding to discuss:
We came, my love; around, above, below,
Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,
Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod
She grants to us, as granted by her GodBut, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurl'd
Never his fairy wing O'er fairier world!
Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
Headlong thitherward o'er the starry seaBut when its glory swell'd upon the sky,
As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye,
We paused before the heritage of men,
And thy star trembled- as doth Beauty then!'
Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away
The night that waned and waned and brought no day.
They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts
Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,

IN CHAPTERS [5/5]



   2 Poetry
   1 Fiction


   2 H P Lovecraft


   2 Lovecraft - Poems


1f.lovecraft - The Shunned House, #Lovecraft - Poems, #unset, #Integral Yoga
   Providence, where in the late forties Edgar Allan Poe used to sojourn
   often during his unsuccessful wooing of the gifted poetess, Mrs.

1.lovecraft - Waste Paper- A Poem Of Profound Insignificance, #Lovecraft - Poems, #unset, #Integral Yoga
  By Edgar Allan Poe
  Stubbed his toe

1.poe - The Bells - A collaboration, #Poe - Poems, #unset, #Integral Yoga
  It can be found in The Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe, London: Chandos Classics [1888], by John H. Ingram,

Book of Imaginary Beings (text), #unset, #Anonymous, #Various
  In his Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket, published in , Edgar Allan Poe attributed to certain Antarctic islands an astounding yet credible fauna. In Chapter
  XVIII, we read:

The House of Asterion, #Labyrinths, #Jorge Luis Borges, #Poetry
    As in many of his stories, Borges looks at a popular story through a different lens, shedding light on other possible interpretations of the events. In the vein of Edgar Allan Poe he starts with the monologue of a socially unusual character and at the end adds an unexpected twist to the story.

WORDNET



--- Overview of noun edgar_allan_poe

The noun edgar allan poe has 1 sense (no senses from tagged texts)
              
1. Poe, Edgar Allan Poe ::: (United States writer and poet (1809-1849))


--- Synonyms/Hypernyms (Ordered by Estimated Frequency) of noun edgar_allan_poe

1 sense of edgar allan poe                      

Sense 1
Poe, Edgar Allan Poe
   INSTANCE OF=> writer, author
     => communicator
       => person, individual, someone, somebody, mortal, soul
         => organism, being
           => living thing, animate thing
             => whole, unit
               => object, physical object
                 => physical entity
                   => entity
         => causal agent, cause, causal agency
           => physical entity
             => entity
   INSTANCE OF=> poet
     => writer, author
       => communicator
         => person, individual, someone, somebody, mortal, soul
           => organism, being
             => living thing, animate thing
               => whole, unit
                 => object, physical object
                   => physical entity
                     => entity
           => causal agent, cause, causal agency
             => physical entity
               => entity


--- Hyponyms of noun edgar_allan_poe
                                    


--- Synonyms/Hypernyms (Ordered by Estimated Frequency) of noun edgar_allan_poe

1 sense of edgar allan poe                      

Sense 1
Poe, Edgar Allan Poe
   INSTANCE OF=> writer, author
   INSTANCE OF=> poet




--- Coordinate Terms (sisters) of noun edgar_allan_poe

1 sense of edgar allan poe                      

Sense 1
Poe, Edgar Allan Poe
  -> writer, author
   => abstractor, abstracter
   => alliterator
   => authoress
   => biographer
   => coauthor, joint author
   => commentator, reviewer
   => compiler
   => contributor
   => cyberpunk
   => drafter
   => dramatist, playwright
   => essayist, litterateur
   => folk writer
   => framer
   => gagman, gagster, gagwriter
   => ghostwriter, ghost
   => Gothic romancer
   => hack, hack writer, literary hack
   => journalist
   => librettist
   => lyricist, lyrist
   => novelist
   => pamphleteer
   => paragrapher
   => poet
   => polemicist, polemist, polemic
   => rhymer, rhymester, versifier, poetizer, poetiser
   => scenarist
   => scriptwriter
   => space writer
   => speechwriter
   => tragedian
   => wordmonger
   => word-painter
   => wordsmith
   HAS INSTANCE=> Aiken, Conrad Aiken, Conrad Potter Aiken
   HAS INSTANCE=> Alger, Horatio Alger
   HAS INSTANCE=> Algren, Nelson Algren
   HAS INSTANCE=> Andersen, Hans Christian Andersen
   HAS INSTANCE=> Anderson, Sherwood Anderson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Aragon, Louis Aragon
   HAS INSTANCE=> Asch, Sholem Asch, Shalom Asch, Sholom Asch
   HAS INSTANCE=> Asimov, Isaac Asimov
   HAS INSTANCE=> Auchincloss, Louis Auchincloss, Louis Stanton Auchincloss
   HAS INSTANCE=> Austen, Jane Austen
   HAS INSTANCE=> Baldwin, James Baldwin, James Arthur Baldwin
   HAS INSTANCE=> Baraka, Imamu Amiri Baraka, LeRoi Jones
   HAS INSTANCE=> Barth, John Barth, John Simmons Barth
   HAS INSTANCE=> Barthelme, Donald Barthelme
   HAS INSTANCE=> Baum, Frank Baum, Lyman Frank Brown
   HAS INSTANCE=> Beauvoir, Simone de Beauvoir
   HAS INSTANCE=> Beckett, Samuel Beckett
   HAS INSTANCE=> Beerbohm, Max Beerbohm, Sir Henry Maxmilian Beerbohm
   HAS INSTANCE=> Belloc, Hilaire Belloc, Joseph Hilaire Peter Belloc
   HAS INSTANCE=> Bellow, Saul Bellow, Solomon Bellow
   HAS INSTANCE=> Benchley, Robert Benchley, Robert Charles Benchley
   HAS INSTANCE=> Benet, William Rose Benet
   HAS INSTANCE=> Bierce, Ambrose Bierce, Ambrose Gwinett Bierce
   HAS INSTANCE=> Boell, Heinrich Boell, Heinrich Theodor Boell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Bontemps, Arna Wendell Bontemps
   HAS INSTANCE=> Borges, Jorge Borges, Jorge Luis Borges
   HAS INSTANCE=> Boswell, James Boswell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Boyle, Kay Boyle
   HAS INSTANCE=> Bradbury, Ray Bradbury, Ray Douglas Bradbury
   HAS INSTANCE=> Bronte, Charlotte Bronte
   HAS INSTANCE=> Bronte, Emily Bronte, Emily Jane Bronte, Currer Bell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Bronte, Anne Bronte
   HAS INSTANCE=> Browne, Charles Farrar Browne, Artemus Ward
   HAS INSTANCE=> Buck, Pearl Buck, Pearl Sydenstricker Buck
   HAS INSTANCE=> Bunyan, John Bunyan
   HAS INSTANCE=> Burgess, Anthony Burgess
   HAS INSTANCE=> Burnett, Frances Hodgson Burnett, Frances Eliza Hodgson Burnett
   HAS INSTANCE=> Burroughs, Edgar Rice Burroughs
   HAS INSTANCE=> Burroughs, William Burroughs, William S. Burroughs, William Seward Burroughs
   HAS INSTANCE=> Butler, Samuel Butler
   HAS INSTANCE=> Cabell, James Branch Cabell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Caldwell, Erskine Caldwell, Erskine Preston Caldwell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Calvino, Italo Calvino
   HAS INSTANCE=> Camus, Albert Camus
   HAS INSTANCE=> Canetti, Elias Canetti
   HAS INSTANCE=> Capek, Karel Capek
   HAS INSTANCE=> Carroll, Lewis Carroll, Dodgson, Reverend Dodgson, Charles Dodgson, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Cather, Willa Cather, Willa Sibert Cather
   HAS INSTANCE=> Cervantes, Miguel de Cervantes, Cervantes Saavedra, Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
   HAS INSTANCE=> Chandler, Raymond Chandler, Raymond Thornton Chandler
   HAS INSTANCE=> Chateaubriand, Francois Rene Chateaubriand, Vicomte de Chateaubriand
   HAS INSTANCE=> Cheever, John Cheever
   HAS INSTANCE=> Chesterton, G. K. Chesterton, Gilbert Keith Chesterton
   HAS INSTANCE=> Chopin, Kate Chopin, Kate O'Flaherty Chopin
   HAS INSTANCE=> Christie, Agatha Christie, Dame Agatha Mary Clarissa Christie
   HAS INSTANCE=> Churchill, Winston Churchill, Winston S. Churchill, Sir Winston Leonard Spenser Churchill
   HAS INSTANCE=> Clemens, Samuel Langhorne Clemens, Mark Twain
   HAS INSTANCE=> Cocteau, Jean Cocteau
   HAS INSTANCE=> Colette, Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette, Sidonie-Gabrielle Claudine Colette
   HAS INSTANCE=> Collins, Wilkie Collins, William Wilkie Collins
   HAS INSTANCE=> Conan Doyle, A. Conan Doyle, Arthur Conan Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
   HAS INSTANCE=> Conrad, Joseph Conrad, Teodor Josef Konrad Korzeniowski
   HAS INSTANCE=> Cooper, James Fenimore Cooper
   HAS INSTANCE=> Crane, Stephen Crane
   HAS INSTANCE=> cummings, e. e. cummings, Edward Estlin Cummings
   HAS INSTANCE=> Day, Clarence Day, Clarence Shepard Day Jr.
   HAS INSTANCE=> Defoe, Daniel Defoe
   HAS INSTANCE=> De Quincey, Thomas De Quincey
   HAS INSTANCE=> Dickens, Charles Dickens, Charles John Huffam Dickens
   HAS INSTANCE=> Didion, Joan Didion
   HAS INSTANCE=> Dinesen, Isak Dinesen, Blixen, Karen Blixen, Baroness Karen Blixen
   HAS INSTANCE=> Doctorow, E. L. Doctorow, Edgard Lawrence Doctorow
   HAS INSTANCE=> Dos Passos, John Dos Passos, John Roderigo Dos Passos
   HAS INSTANCE=> Dostoyevsky, Dostoevski, Dostoevsky, Feodor Dostoyevsky, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Feodor Dostoevski, Fyodor Dostoevski, Feodor Dostoevsky, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Feodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky, Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky, Feodor Mikhailovich Dostoevski, Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevski, Feodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky, Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky
   HAS INSTANCE=> Dreiser, Theodore Dreiser, Theodore Herman Albert Dreiser
   HAS INSTANCE=> Dumas, Alexandre Dumas
   HAS INSTANCE=> du Maurier, George du Maurier, George Louis Palmella Busson du Maurier
   HAS INSTANCE=> du Maurier, Daphne du Maurier, Dame Daphne du Maurier
   HAS INSTANCE=> Durrell, Lawrence Durrell, Lawrence George Durrell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Ehrenberg, Ilya Ehrenberg, Ilya Grigorievich Ehrenberg
   HAS INSTANCE=> Eliot, George Eliot, Mary Ann Evans
   HAS INSTANCE=> Ellison, Ralph Ellison, Ralph Waldo Ellison
   HAS INSTANCE=> Emerson, Ralph Waldo Emerson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Farrell, James Thomas Farrell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Ferber, Edna Ferber
   HAS INSTANCE=> Fielding, Henry Fielding
   HAS INSTANCE=> Fitzgerald, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald
   HAS INSTANCE=> Flaubert, Gustave Flaubert
   HAS INSTANCE=> Fleming, Ian Fleming, Ian Lancaster Fleming
   HAS INSTANCE=> Ford, Ford Madox Ford, Ford Hermann Hueffer
   HAS INSTANCE=> Forester, C. S. Forester, Cecil Scott Forester
   HAS INSTANCE=> France, Anatole France, Jacques Anatole Francois Thibault
   HAS INSTANCE=> Franklin, Benjamin Franklin
   HAS INSTANCE=> Fuentes, Carlos Fuentes
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gaboriau, Emile Gaboriau
   HAS INSTANCE=> Galsworthy, John Galsworthy
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gardner, Erle Stanley Gardner
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gaskell, Elizabeth Gaskell, Elizabeth Cleghorn Stevenson Gaskell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Geisel, Theodor Seuss Geisel, Dr. Seuss
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gibran, Kahlil Gibran
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gide, Andre Gide, Andre Paul Guillaume Gide
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gjellerup, Karl Gjellerup
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gogol, Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol
   HAS INSTANCE=> Golding, William Golding, Sir William Gerald Golding
   HAS INSTANCE=> Goldsmith, Oliver Goldsmith
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gombrowicz, Witold Gombrowicz
   HAS INSTANCE=> Goncourt, Edmond de Goncourt, Edmond Louis Antoine Huot de Goncourt
   HAS INSTANCE=> Goncourt, Jules de Goncourt, Jules Alfred Huot de Goncourt
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gordimer, Nadine Gordimer
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gorky, Maksim Gorky, Gorki, Maxim Gorki, Aleksey Maksimovich Peshkov, Aleksey Maximovich Peshkov
   HAS INSTANCE=> Grahame, Kenneth Grahame
   HAS INSTANCE=> Grass, Gunter Grass, Gunter Wilhelm Grass
   HAS INSTANCE=> Graves, Robert Graves, Robert Ranke Graves
   HAS INSTANCE=> Greene, Graham Greene, Henry Graham Greene
   HAS INSTANCE=> Grey, Zane Grey
   HAS INSTANCE=> Grimm, Jakob Grimm, Jakob Ludwig Karl Grimm
   HAS INSTANCE=> Grimm, Wilhelm Grimm, Wilhelm Karl Grimm
   HAS INSTANCE=> Haggard, Rider Haggard, Sir Henry Rider Haggard
   HAS INSTANCE=> Haldane, Elizabeth Haldane, Elizabeth Sanderson Haldane
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hale, Edward Everett Hale
   HAS INSTANCE=> Haley, Alex Haley
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hall, Radclyffe Hall, Marguerite Radclyffe Hall
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hammett, Dashiell Hammett, Samuel Dashiell Hammett
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hamsun, Knut Hamsun, Knut Pedersen
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hardy, Thomas Hardy
   HAS INSTANCE=> Harris, Frank Harris, James Thomas Harris
   HAS INSTANCE=> Harris, Joel Harris, Joel Chandler Harris
   HAS INSTANCE=> Harte, Bret Harte
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hasek, Jaroslav Hasek
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hawthorne, Nathaniel Hawthorne
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hecht, Ben Hecht
   HAS INSTANCE=> Heinlein, Robert A. Heinlein, Robert Anson Heinlein
   HAS INSTANCE=> Heller, Joseph Heller
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hemingway, Ernest Hemingway
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hesse, Hermann Hesse
   HAS INSTANCE=> Heyse, Paul Heyse, Paul Johann Ludwig von Heyse
   HAS INSTANCE=> Heyward, DuBois Heyward, Edwin DuBois Hayward
   HAS INSTANCE=> Higginson, Thomas Higginson, Thomas Wentworth Storrow Higginson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hoffmann, E. T. A. Hoffmann, Ernst Theodor Amadeus Hoffmann, Ernst Theodor Wilhelm Hoffmann
   HAS INSTANCE=> Holmes, Oliver Wendell Holmes
   HAS INSTANCE=> Howells, William Dean Howells
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hoyle, Edmond Hoyle
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hubbard, L. Ron Hubbard
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hughes, Langston Hughes, James Langston Hughes
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hunt, Leigh Hunt, James Henry Leigh Hunt
   HAS INSTANCE=> Huxley, Aldous Huxley, Aldous Leonard Huxley
   HAS INSTANCE=> Irving, John Irving
   HAS INSTANCE=> Irving, Washington Irving
   HAS INSTANCE=> Isherwood, Christopher Isherwood, Christopher William Bradshaw Isherwood
   HAS INSTANCE=> Jackson, Helen Hunt Jackson, Helen Maria Fiske Hunt Jackson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Jacobs, Jane Jacobs
   HAS INSTANCE=> Jacobs, W. W. Jacobs, William Wymark Jacobs
   HAS INSTANCE=> James, Henry James
   HAS INSTANCE=> Jensen, Johannes Vilhelm Jensen
   HAS INSTANCE=> Johnson, Samuel Johnson, Dr. Johnson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Jong, Erica Jong
   HAS INSTANCE=> Joyce, James Joyce, James Augustine Aloysius Joyce
   HAS INSTANCE=> Kafka, Franz Kafka
   HAS INSTANCE=> Keller, Helen Keller, Helen Adams Keller
   HAS INSTANCE=> Kerouac, Jack Kerouac, Jean-Louis Lebris de Kerouac
   HAS INSTANCE=> Kesey, Ken Kesey, Ken Elton Kesey
   HAS INSTANCE=> Kipling, Rudyard Kipling, Joseph Rudyard Kipling
   HAS INSTANCE=> Koestler, Arthur Koestler
   HAS INSTANCE=> La Fontaine, Jean de La Fontaine
   HAS INSTANCE=> Lardner, Ring Lardner, Ringgold Wilmer Lardner
   HAS INSTANCE=> La Rochefoucauld, Francois de La Rochefoucauld
   HAS INSTANCE=> Lawrence, D. H. Lawrence, David Herbert Lawrence
   HAS INSTANCE=> Lawrence, T. E. Lawrence, Thomas Edward Lawrence, Lawrence of Arabia
   HAS INSTANCE=> le Carre, John le Carre, David John Moore Cornwell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Leonard, Elmore Leonard, Elmore John Leonard, Dutch Leonard
   HAS INSTANCE=> Lermontov, Mikhail Yurievich Lermontov
   HAS INSTANCE=> Lessing, Doris Lessing, Doris May Lessing
   HAS INSTANCE=> Lewis, C. S. Lewis, Clive Staples Lewis
   HAS INSTANCE=> Lewis, Sinclair Lewis, Harry Sinclair Lewis
   HAS INSTANCE=> London, Jack London, John Griffith Chaney
   HAS INSTANCE=> Lowry, Malcolm Lowry, Clarence Malcolm Lowry
   HAS INSTANCE=> Lyly, John Lyly
   HAS INSTANCE=> Lytton, First Baron Lytton, Bulwer-Lytton, Edward George Earle Bulwer-Lytton
   HAS INSTANCE=> Mailer, Norman Mailer
   HAS INSTANCE=> Malamud, Bernard Malamud
   HAS INSTANCE=> Malory, Thomas Malory, Sir Thomas Malory
   HAS INSTANCE=> Malraux, Andre Malraux
   HAS INSTANCE=> Mann, Thomas Mann
   HAS INSTANCE=> Mansfield, Katherine Mansfield, Kathleen Mansfield Beauchamp
   HAS INSTANCE=> Manzoni, Alessandro Manzoni
   HAS INSTANCE=> Marquand, John Marquand, John Philip Marquand
   HAS INSTANCE=> Marsh, Ngaio Marsh
   HAS INSTANCE=> Mason, A. E. W. Mason, Alfred Edward Woodley Mason
   HAS INSTANCE=> Maugham, Somerset Maugham, W. Somerset Maugham, William Somerset Maugham
   HAS INSTANCE=> Maupassant, Guy de Maupassant, Henri Rene Albert Guy de Maupassant
   HAS INSTANCE=> Mauriac, Francois Mauriac, Francois Charles Mauriac
   HAS INSTANCE=> Maurois, Andre Maurois, Emile Herzog
   HAS INSTANCE=> McCarthy, Mary McCarthy, Mary Therese McCarthy
   HAS INSTANCE=> McCullers, Carson McCullers, Carson Smith McCullers
   HAS INSTANCE=> McLuhan, Marshall McLuhan, Herbert Marshall McLuhan
   HAS INSTANCE=> Melville, Herman Melville
   HAS INSTANCE=> Merton, Thomas Merton
   HAS INSTANCE=> Michener, James Michener, James Albert Michener
   HAS INSTANCE=> Miller, Henry Miller, Henry Valentine Miller
   HAS INSTANCE=> Milne, A. A. Milne, Alan Alexander Milne
   HAS INSTANCE=> Mitchell, Margaret Mitchell, Margaret Munnerlyn Mitchell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Mitford, Nancy Mitford, Nancy Freeman Mitford
   HAS INSTANCE=> Mitford, Jessica Mitford, Jessica Lucy Mitford
   HAS INSTANCE=> Montaigne, Michel Montaigne, Michel Eyquem Montaigne
   HAS INSTANCE=> Montgomery, L. M. Montgomery, Lucy Maud Montgomery
   HAS INSTANCE=> More, Thomas More, Sir Thomas More
   HAS INSTANCE=> Morrison, Toni Morrison, Chloe Anthony Wofford
   HAS INSTANCE=> Munro, H. H. Munro, Hector Hugh Munro, Saki
   HAS INSTANCE=> Murdoch, Iris Murdoch, Dame Jean Iris Murdoch
   HAS INSTANCE=> Musset, Alfred de Musset, Louis Charles Alfred de Musset
   HAS INSTANCE=> Nabokov, Vladimir Nabokov, Vladimir vladimirovich Nabokov
   HAS INSTANCE=> Nash, Ogden Nash
   HAS INSTANCE=> Nicolson, Harold Nicolson, Sir Harold George Nicolson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Norris, Frank Norris, Benjamin Franklin Norris Jr.
   HAS INSTANCE=> Oates, Joyce Carol Oates
   HAS INSTANCE=> O'Brien, Edna O'Brien
   HAS INSTANCE=> O'Connor, Flannery O'Connor, Mary Flannery O'Connor
   HAS INSTANCE=> O'Flaherty, Liam O'Flaherty
   HAS INSTANCE=> O'Hara, John Henry O'Hara
   HAS INSTANCE=> Ondaatje, Michael Ondaatje, Philip Michael Ondaatje
   HAS INSTANCE=> Orczy, Baroness Emmusca Orczy
   HAS INSTANCE=> Orwell, George Orwell, Eric Blair, Eric Arthur Blair
   HAS INSTANCE=> Page, Thomas Nelson Page
   HAS INSTANCE=> Parker, Dorothy Parker, Dorothy Rothschild Parker
   HAS INSTANCE=> Pasternak, Boris Pasternak, Boris Leonidovich Pasternak
   HAS INSTANCE=> Paton, Alan Paton, Alan Stewart Paton
   HAS INSTANCE=> Percy, Walker Percy
   HAS INSTANCE=> Petronius, Gaius Petronius, Petronius Arbiter
   HAS INSTANCE=> Plath, Sylvia Plath
   HAS INSTANCE=> Pliny, Pliny the Elder, Gaius Plinius Secundus
   HAS INSTANCE=> Pliny, Pliny the Younger, Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus
   HAS INSTANCE=> Poe, Edgar Allan Poe
   HAS INSTANCE=> Porter, William Sydney Porter, O. Henry
   HAS INSTANCE=> Porter, Katherine Anne Porter
   HAS INSTANCE=> Post, Emily Post, Emily Price Post
   HAS INSTANCE=> Pound, Ezra Pound, Ezra Loomis Pound
   HAS INSTANCE=> Powys, John Cowper Powys
   HAS INSTANCE=> Powys, Theodore Francis Powys
   HAS INSTANCE=> Powys, Llewelyn Powys
   HAS INSTANCE=> Pyle, Howard Pyle
   HAS INSTANCE=> Pynchon, Thomas Pynchon
   HAS INSTANCE=> Rand, Ayn Rand
   HAS INSTANCE=> Richler, Mordecai Richler
   HAS INSTANCE=> Roberts, Kenneth Roberts
   HAS INSTANCE=> Roosevelt, Eleanor Roosevelt, Anna Eleanor Roosevelt
   HAS INSTANCE=> Roth, Philip Roth, Philip Milton Roth
   HAS INSTANCE=> Rousseau, Jean-Jacques Rousseau
   HAS INSTANCE=> Runyon, Damon Runyon, Alfred Damon Runyon
   HAS INSTANCE=> Rushdie, Salman Rushdie, Ahmed Salman Rushdie
   HAS INSTANCE=> Russell, George William Russell, A.E.
   HAS INSTANCE=> Sade, de Sade, Comte Donatien Alphonse Francois de Sade, Marquis de Sade
   HAS INSTANCE=> Salinger, J. D. Salinger, Jerome David Salinger
   HAS INSTANCE=> Sand, George Sand, Amandine Aurore Lucie Dupin, Baroness Dudevant
   HAS INSTANCE=> Sandburg, Carl Sandburg
   HAS INSTANCE=> Saroyan, William Saroyan
   HAS INSTANCE=> Sayers, Dorothy Sayers, Dorothy L. Sayers, Dorothy Leigh Sayers
   HAS INSTANCE=> Schiller, Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller
   HAS INSTANCE=> Scott, Walter Scott, Sir Walter Scott
   HAS INSTANCE=> Service, Robert William Service
   HAS INSTANCE=> Shaw, G. B. Shaw, George Bernard Shaw
   HAS INSTANCE=> Shelley, Mary Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Mary Godwin Wollstonecraft Shelley
   HAS INSTANCE=> Shute, Nevil Shute, Nevil Shute Norway
   HAS INSTANCE=> Simenon, Georges Simenon, Georges Joseph Christian Simenon
   HAS INSTANCE=> Sinclair, Upton Sinclair, Upton Beall Sinclair
   HAS INSTANCE=> Singer, Isaac Bashevis Singer
   HAS INSTANCE=> Smollett, Tobias Smollett, Tobias George Smollett
   HAS INSTANCE=> Snow, C. P. Snow, Charles Percy Snow, Baron Snow of Leicester
   HAS INSTANCE=> Solzhenitsyn, Alexander Isayevich Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr I. Solzhenitsyn
   HAS INSTANCE=> Sontag, Susan Sontag
   HAS INSTANCE=> Spark, Muriel Spark, Dame Muriel Spark, Muriel Sarah Spark
   HAS INSTANCE=> Spillane, Mickey Spillane, Frank Morrison Spillane
   HAS INSTANCE=> Stael, Madame de Stael, Baronne Anne Louise Germaine Necker de Steal-Holstein
   HAS INSTANCE=> Steele, Sir Richrd Steele
   HAS INSTANCE=> Stein, Gertrude Stein
   HAS INSTANCE=> Steinbeck, John Steinbeck, John Ernst Steinbeck
   HAS INSTANCE=> Stendhal, Marie Henri Beyle
   HAS INSTANCE=> Stephen, Sir Leslie Stephen
   HAS INSTANCE=> Sterne, Laurence Sterne
   HAS INSTANCE=> Stevenson, Robert Louis Stevenson, Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Stockton, Frank Stockton, Francis Richard Stockton
   HAS INSTANCE=> Stoker, Bram Stoker, Abraham Stoker
   HAS INSTANCE=> Stowe, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Harriet Elizabeth Beecher Stowe
   HAS INSTANCE=> Styron, William Styron
   HAS INSTANCE=> Sue, Eugene Sue
   HAS INSTANCE=> Symonds, John Addington Symonds
   HAS INSTANCE=> Tagore, Rabindranath Tagore, Sir Rabindranath Tagore
   HAS INSTANCE=> Tarbell, Ida Tarbell, Ida M. Tarbell, Ida Minerva Tarbell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Thackeray, William Makepeace Thackeray
   HAS INSTANCE=> Thoreau, Henry David Thoreau
   HAS INSTANCE=> Tocqueville, Alexis de Tocqueville, Alexis Charles Henri Maurice de Tocqueville
   HAS INSTANCE=> Toklas, Alice B. Toklas
   HAS INSTANCE=> Tolkien, J.R.R. Tolkien, John Ronald Reuel Tolkien
   HAS INSTANCE=> Tolstoy, Leo Tolstoy, Count Lev Nikolayevitch Tolstoy
   HAS INSTANCE=> Trollope, Anthony Trollope
   HAS INSTANCE=> Turgenev, Ivan Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev
   HAS INSTANCE=> Undset, Sigrid Undset
   HAS INSTANCE=> Untermeyer, Louis Untermeyer
   HAS INSTANCE=> Updike, John Updike, John Hoyer Updike
   HAS INSTANCE=> Van Doren, Carl Van Doren, Carl Clinton Van Doren
   HAS INSTANCE=> Vargas Llosa, Mario Vargas Llosa, Jorge Mario Pedro Vargas Llosa
   HAS INSTANCE=> Verne, Jules Verne
   HAS INSTANCE=> Vidal, Gore Vidal, Eugene Luther Vidal
   HAS INSTANCE=> Voltaire, Arouet, Francois-Marie Arouet
   HAS INSTANCE=> Vonnegut, Kurt Vonnegut
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wain, John Wain, John Barrington Wain
   HAS INSTANCE=> Walker, Alice Walker, Alice Malsenior Walker
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wallace, Edgar Wallace, Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace
   HAS INSTANCE=> Walpole, Horace Walpole, Horatio Walpole, Fourth Earl of Orford
   HAS INSTANCE=> Walton, Izaak Walton
   HAS INSTANCE=> Ward, Mrs. Humphrey Ward, Mary Augusta Arnold Ward
   HAS INSTANCE=> Warren, Robert Penn Warren
   HAS INSTANCE=> Waugh, Evelyn Waugh, Evelyn Arthur Saint John Waugh
   HAS INSTANCE=> Webb, Beatrice Webb, Martha Beatrice Potter Webb
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wells, H. G. Wells, Herbert George Wells
   HAS INSTANCE=> Welty, Eudora Welty
   HAS INSTANCE=> Werfel, Franz Werfel
   HAS INSTANCE=> West, Rebecca West, Dame Rebecca West, Cicily Isabel Fairfield
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wharton, Edith Wharton, Edith Newbold Jones Wharton
   HAS INSTANCE=> White, E. B. White, Elwyn Brooks White
   HAS INSTANCE=> White, Patrick White, Patrick Victor Martindale White
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wiesel, Elie Wiesel, Eliezer Wiesel
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wilde, Oscar Wilde, Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wilder, Thornton Wilder, Thornton Niven Wilder
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wilson, Sir Angus Wilson, Angus Frank Johnstone Wilson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wilson, Harriet Wilson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wister, Owen Wister
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wodehouse, P. G. Wodehouse, Pelham Grenville Wodehouse
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wolfe, Thomas Wolfe, Thomas Clayton Wolfe
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wolfe, Tom Wolfe, Thomas Wolfe, Thomas Kennerly Wolfe Jr.
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wollstonecraft, Mary Wollstonecraft, Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wood, Mrs. Henry Wood, Ellen Price Wood
   HAS INSTANCE=> Woolf, Virginia Woolf, Adeline Virginia Stephen Woolf
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wouk, Herman Wouk
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wright, Richard Wright
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wright, Willard Huntington Wright, S. S. Van Dine
   HAS INSTANCE=> Zangwill, Israel Zangwill
   HAS INSTANCE=> Zweig, Stefan Zweig
  -> poet
   => bard
   => elegist
   => odist
   => poetess
   => poet laureate
   => poet laureate
   => sonneteer
   HAS INSTANCE=> Alcaeus
   HAS INSTANCE=> Apollinaire, Guillaume Apollinaire, Wilhelm Apollinaris de Kostrowitzki
   HAS INSTANCE=> Arnold, Matthew Arnold
   HAS INSTANCE=> Arp, Jean Arp, Hans Arp
   HAS INSTANCE=> Auden, W. H. Auden, Wystan Hugh Auden
   HAS INSTANCE=> Baudelaire, Charles Baudelaire, Charles Pierre Baudelaire
   HAS INSTANCE=> Benet, Stephen Vincent Benet
   HAS INSTANCE=> Blake, William Blake
   HAS INSTANCE=> Blok, Alexander Alexandrovich Blok, Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Blok
   HAS INSTANCE=> Boccaccio, Giovanni Boccaccio
   HAS INSTANCE=> Bradstreet, Anne Bradstreet, Anne Dudley Bradstreet
   HAS INSTANCE=> Brecht, Bertolt Brecht
   HAS INSTANCE=> Brooke, Rupert Brooke
   HAS INSTANCE=> Browning, Elizabeth Barrett Browning
   HAS INSTANCE=> Browning, Robert Browning
   HAS INSTANCE=> Burns, Robert Burns
   HAS INSTANCE=> Butler, Samuel Butler
   HAS INSTANCE=> Byron, Lord George Gordon Byron, Sixth Baron Byron of Rochdale
   HAS INSTANCE=> Calderon, Calderon de la Barca, Pedro Calderon de la Barca
   HAS INSTANCE=> Carducci, Giosue Carducci
   HAS INSTANCE=> Carew, Thomas Carew
   HAS INSTANCE=> Catullus, Gaius Valerius Catullus
   HAS INSTANCE=> Chaucer, Geoffrey Chaucer
   HAS INSTANCE=> Ciardi, John Ciardi, John Anthony Ciardi
   HAS INSTANCE=> Coleridge, Samuel Taylor Coleridge
   HAS INSTANCE=> Corneille, Pierre Corneille
   HAS INSTANCE=> Cowper, William Cowper
   HAS INSTANCE=> Crane, Hart Crane, Harold Hart Crane
   HAS INSTANCE=> Cynewulf, Cynwulf
   HAS INSTANCE=> Dante, Dante Alighieri
   HAS INSTANCE=> de la Mare, Walter de la Mare, Walter John de la Mare
   HAS INSTANCE=> Dickinson, Emily Dickinson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Donne, John Donne
   HAS INSTANCE=> Dryden, John Dryden
   HAS INSTANCE=> Eliot, T. S. Eliot, Thomas Stearns Eliot
   HAS INSTANCE=> Fitzgerald, Edward Fitzgerald
   HAS INSTANCE=> Frost, Robert Frost, Robert Lee Frost
   HAS INSTANCE=> Garcia Lorca, Frederico Garcia Lorca, Lorca
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gilbert, William Gilbert, William S. Gilbert, William Schwenk Gilbert, Sir William Gilbert
   HAS INSTANCE=> Ginsberg, Allen Ginsberg
   HAS INSTANCE=> Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gongora, Luis de Gongora y Argote
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gray, Thomas Gray
   HAS INSTANCE=> Herrick, Robert Herrick
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hesiod
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hoffmannsthal, Hugo von Hoffmannsthal
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hogg, James Hogg
   HAS INSTANCE=> Homer
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hopkins, Gerard Manley Hopkins
   HAS INSTANCE=> Horace
   HAS INSTANCE=> Housman, A. E. Housman, Alfred Edward Housman
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hughes, Ted Hughes, Edward James Hughes
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hugo, Victor Hugo, Victor-Marie Hugo
   HAS INSTANCE=> Ibsen, Henrik Ibsen, Henrik Johan Ibsen
   HAS INSTANCE=> Jarrell, Randall Jarrell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Jeffers, Robinson Jeffers, John Robinson Jeffers
   HAS INSTANCE=> Jimenez, Juan Ramon Jimenez
   HAS INSTANCE=> Jonson, Ben Jonson, Benjamin Jonson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Karlfeldt, Erik Axel Karlfeldt
   HAS INSTANCE=> Keats, John Keats
   HAS INSTANCE=> Key, Francis Scott Key
   HAS INSTANCE=> Klopstock, Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstock
   HAS INSTANCE=> Lindsay, Vachel Lindsay, Nicholas Vachel Lindsay
   HAS INSTANCE=> Li Po
   HAS INSTANCE=> Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
   HAS INSTANCE=> Lovelace, Richard Lovelace
   HAS INSTANCE=> Lowell, Amy Lowell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Lowell, Robert Lowell, Robert Traill Spence Lowell Jr.
   HAS INSTANCE=> Lucretius, Titus Lucretius Carus
   HAS INSTANCE=> MacLeish, Archibald MacLeish
   HAS INSTANCE=> Mallarme, Stephane Mallarme
   HAS INSTANCE=> Mandelstam, Osip Mandelstam, Osip Emilevich Mandelstam, Mandelshtam
   HAS INSTANCE=> Marini, Giambattista Marini, Marino, Giambattista Marino
   HAS INSTANCE=> Marlowe, Christopher Marlowe
   HAS INSTANCE=> Marti, Jose Julian Marti
   HAS INSTANCE=> Martial
   HAS INSTANCE=> Marvell, Andrew Marvell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Masefield, John Masefield, John Edward Masefield
   HAS INSTANCE=> Masters, Edgar Lee Masters
   HAS INSTANCE=> Mayakovski, Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovski
   HAS INSTANCE=> Meredith, George Meredith
   HAS INSTANCE=> Milton, John Milton
   HAS INSTANCE=> Moore, Marianne Moore, Marianne Craig Moore
   HAS INSTANCE=> Moore, Thomas Moore
   HAS INSTANCE=> Morris, William Morris
   HAS INSTANCE=> Musset, Alfred de Musset, Louis Charles Alfred de Musset
   HAS INSTANCE=> Neruda, Pablo Neruda, Reyes, Neftali Ricardo Reyes
   HAS INSTANCE=> Noyes, Alfred Noyes
   HAS INSTANCE=> Omar Khayyam
   HAS INSTANCE=> Ovid, Publius Ovidius Naso
   HAS INSTANCE=> Palgrave, Francis Turner Palgrave
   HAS INSTANCE=> Petrarch, Petrarca, Francesco Petrarca
   HAS INSTANCE=> Pindar
   HAS INSTANCE=> Plath, Sylvia Plath
   HAS INSTANCE=> Poe, Edgar Allan Poe
   HAS INSTANCE=> Pope, Alexander Pope
   HAS INSTANCE=> Pound, Ezra Pound, Ezra Loomis Pound
   HAS INSTANCE=> Pushkin, Alexander Pushkin, Aleksandr Sergeyevich Pushkin
   HAS INSTANCE=> Racine, Jean Racine, Jean Baptiste Racine
   HAS INSTANCE=> Riley, James Whitcomb Riley
   HAS INSTANCE=> Rilke, Rainer Maria Rilke
   HAS INSTANCE=> Rimbaud, Arthur Rimbaud, Jean Nicholas Arthur Rimbaud
   HAS INSTANCE=> Robinson, Edwin Arlington Robinson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Rostand, Edmond Rostand
   HAS INSTANCE=> Seeger, Alan Seeger
   HAS INSTANCE=> Sexton, Anne Sexton
   HAS INSTANCE=> Shakespeare, William Shakespeare, Shakspere, William Shakspere, Bard of Avon
   HAS INSTANCE=> Shelley, Percy Bysshe Shelley
   HAS INSTANCE=> Shevchenko, Taras Grigoryevich Shevchenko
   HAS INSTANCE=> Sidney, Sir Philip Sidney
   HAS INSTANCE=> Silverstein, Shel Silverstein, Shelby Silverstein
   HAS INSTANCE=> Sitwell, Dame Edith Sitwell, Dame Edith Louisa Sitwell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Southey, Robert Southey
   HAS INSTANCE=> Spender, Stephen Spender, Sir Stephen Harold Spender
   HAS INSTANCE=> Spenser, Edmund Spenser
   HAS INSTANCE=> Stevens, Wallace Stevens
   HAS INSTANCE=> Suckling, Sir John Suckling
   HAS INSTANCE=> Swinburne, Algernon Charles Swinburne
   HAS INSTANCE=> Symons, Arthur Symons
   HAS INSTANCE=> Synge, J. M. Synge, John Millington Synge, Edmund John Millington Synge
   HAS INSTANCE=> Tasso, Torquato Tasso
   HAS INSTANCE=> Tate, Allen Tate, John Orley Allen Tate
   HAS INSTANCE=> Teasdale, Sara Teasdale
   HAS INSTANCE=> Tennyson, Alfred Tennyson, First Baron Tennyson, Alfred Lord Tennyson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Thespis
   HAS INSTANCE=> Thomas, Dylan Thomas, Dylan Marlais Thomas
   HAS INSTANCE=> Trumbull, John Trumbull
   HAS INSTANCE=> Tzara, Tristan Tzara, Samuel Rosenstock
   HAS INSTANCE=> Uhland, Johann Ludwig Uhland
   HAS INSTANCE=> Verlaine, Paul Verlaine
   HAS INSTANCE=> Villon, Francois Villon
   HAS INSTANCE=> Virgil, Vergil, Publius Vergilius Maro
   HAS INSTANCE=> Voznesenski, Andrei Voznesenski
   HAS INSTANCE=> Warren, Robert Penn Warren
   HAS INSTANCE=> Watts, Isaac Watts
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wheatley, Phillis Wheatley
   HAS INSTANCE=> Whitman, Walt Whitman
   HAS INSTANCE=> Whittier, John Greenleaf Whittier
   HAS INSTANCE=> Williams, William Carlos Williams
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wordsworth, William Wordsworth
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wyatt, Sir Thomas Wyatt, Wyat, Sir Thomas Wyat
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wylie, Elinor Morton Hoyt Wylie
   HAS INSTANCE=> Yeats, William Butler Yeats, W. B. Yeats
   HAS INSTANCE=> Yevtushenko, Yevgeni Yevtushenko, Yevgeni Aleksandrovich Yevtushenko
   HAS INSTANCE=> Young, Edward Young




--- Grep of noun edgar_allan_poe
edgar allan poe



IN WEBGEN [10000/155]

Wikipedia - Aether (classical element) -- Classical element
Wikipedia - Aether (disambiguation)
Wikipedia - Aether drag hypothesis
Wikipedia - Aether (mythology) -- Ancient Greek deity, personification of the upper air
Wikipedia - Aether theories
Wikipedia - A History of the Theories of Aether and Electricity -- Series of three books by E. T. Whittaker on the history of electromagnetic theory
Wikipedia - Category:Aether theories
Wikipedia - Classical element -- Earth, water, air, fire, and (later) aether
Wikipedia - Einstein's views on the aether
Wikipedia - Heinz Raether -- German physicist
Wikipedia - Luminiferous Aether
Wikipedia - Luminiferous aether -- Obsolete postulated medium for the propagation of light
Wikipedia - Megachile aetheria -- Species of leafcutter bee (Megachile)
Wikipedia - Rivals of Aether -- 2017 video game
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12348653-the-aether-age
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/1537971.The_Heads_of_the_Town_up_to_the_Aether
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23271603-romulus-buckle-the-luminiferous-aether
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/26062096-aetherial-annihilation
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/26062096.Aetherial_Annihilation__Overworld_Continuum__1_
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/26062096.Aetherial_Annihilation__Overworld_Continuum__1__Overworld_Chronicles__11_
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/26107548-aetheria
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/28231091-romulus-buckle-and-the-luminiferous-aether
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/34507919-aetheria-s-daemon
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/362021.The_Light_Ages__The_Aether_Universe___1_
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/39597200-aetherchrist
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/39856304-aetherchrist
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/42945862-a-court-of-earth-and-aether
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/44749853-aetherborn
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/44824558-aetherqueen
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/678359.Ulrike_Holzwarth_Raether
https://greekmythology.wikia.org/wiki/Aether
https://religion.wikia.org/wiki/Aether
https://religion.wikia.org/wiki/Aether_(classical_element)
https://religion.wikia.org/wiki/Aether_(classical_element)#Fifth_element
https://religion.wikia.org/wiki/Aether_(mythology)
https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Literature/TheAetherCycle
https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/VideoGame/Aether
https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/VideoGame/Aetherion
https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/VideoGame/Aetherius
https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/VideoGame/RivalsOfAether
https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/VideoGame/TheAether
https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Webcomic/AetheriaEpics
https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Webcomic/GoldAetherium
http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Tropers/Aether
https://legends-of-aether-wiki.fandom.com/
https://aliens.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_Drake
https://aliens.fandom.com/wiki/Aethersteed
https://astralchain.fandom.com/wiki/Aether
https://confan.fandom.com/wiki/Aetheris
https://diablo.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_Walker
https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherial_Crown
https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherial_Fragments
https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherial_Shield
https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherial_Staff
https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherian_Archive
https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherion
https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherium
https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherium_Crest
https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherium_Forge
https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherium_Shard
https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherium_Wars
https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherius
https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherius_Stone
https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/From_Nirn_to_the_Aether
https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/Journey_to_Aetherius
https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/The_Aetherium_Wars
https://eq2.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_Powder
https://eq2.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_Racing
https://eq2.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_Racing:_Antonica
https://eq2.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_Racing:_Butcherblock_Mountains
https://eq2.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_Racing:_Great_Divide
https://eq2.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_Racing:_Lavastorm
https://eq2.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_Racing:_Tenebrous_Tangle
https://eq2.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_Racing:_Thundering_Steppes
https://eq2.fandom.com/wiki/Aethersalmon
https://eq2.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherscar
https://fireemblem.fandom.com/wiki/Aether
https://fireemblem.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_Raid
https://fireemblem.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_Raids
https://fireemblem.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_Resort
https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Naether
https://ftb.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_Aspects
https://ftb.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_II
https://ftb.fandom.com/wiki/The_Aether
https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Aether
https://metroid.fandom.com/wiki/Aether
https://metroid.fandom.com/wiki/Dark_Aether
https://mtg.fandom.com/wiki/Aether
https://mtg.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherborn
https://mtg.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherborn?mobileaction=toggle_view_mobile
https://mtg.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherborn?printable=yes
https://mtg.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_Revolt
https://mtg.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_Revolt/Card_comparisons
https://mtg.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_Revolt/Planeswalker_decks
https://mtg.fandom.com/wiki/Great_Aether_Boom
https://mythus.fandom.com/wiki/Aether
https://mythus.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_(disambiguation)
https://mythus.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_elementals
https://mythus.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_(god)
https://nintendo.fandom.com/wiki/Awakening_Aether
https://nintendo.fandom.com/wiki/Great_Aether
https://nintendo.fandom.com/wiki/Rivals_of_Aether
https://starwars-armada.fandom.com/wiki/Ahsoka_Tano_Delta-7_Aethersprite_Squadron
https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Adi_Gallia's_Delta-7B_Aethersprite-class_light_interceptor
https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Adi_Gallia's_Delta-7B_Aethersprite-class_light_interceptor/Legends
https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Anakin_Skywalker's_Delta-7B_Aethersprite-class_light_interceptor
https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Anakin_Skywalker's_Delta-7B_Aethersprite-class_light_interceptor/Legends
https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Delta-7_Aethersprite-class_light_interceptor
https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Delta-7_Aethersprite-class_light_interceptor/Legends
https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Delta-7_Aethersprite_Expansion_Pack
https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Delta-7B_Aethersprite-class_light_interceptor
https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Delta-7B_Aethersprite-class_light_interceptor/Legends
https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Jocasta_Nu's_Delta-7B_Aethersprite-class_light_interceptor
https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Kit_Fisto's_Delta-7B_Aethersprite-class_light_interceptor
https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Luminara_Unduli's_Delta-7B_Aethersprite-class_light_interceptor/Legends
https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Obi-Wan_Kenobi's_Delta-7_Aethersprite-class_light_interceptor
https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Obi-Wan_Kenobi's_Delta-7_Aethersprite-class_light_interceptor/Legends
https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Obi-Wan_Kenobi's_Delta-7B_Aethersprite-class_light_interceptor
https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Obi-Wan_Kenobi's_Delta-7B_Aethersprite-class_light_interceptor/Legends
https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Plo_Koon's_Delta-7_Aethersprite-class_light_interceptor
https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Qui-Gon_Jinn's_Delta-7_Aethersprite-class_light_interceptor
https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Saesee_Tiin's_Delta-7B_Aethersprite-class_light_interceptor
https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Saesee_Tiin's_Delta-7B_Aethersprite-class_light_interceptor/Legends
https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Yoda's_Delta-7_Aethersprite-class_light_interceptor
https://twitter.com/intent/tweet?text=Check+out+Aetherborn+on+MTG+Wiki+--&via=mtgsalvation&url=https://mtg.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherborn
https://vk.com/share.php?url=https://mtg.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherborn
https://whitewolf.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_(DTD)
https://whitewolf.fandom.com/wiki/Aether_(MTAw)
https://whitewolf.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherwine
https://wowwiki-archive.fandom.com/wiki/Aether-tech_Adept
https://wowwiki-archive.fandom.com/wiki/Aether-tech_Assistant
https://wowwiki-archive.fandom.com/wiki/Aether-tech_Master
https://wowwiki-archive.fandom.com/wiki/Quest:Wrangle_More_Aether_Rays!
https://wowwiki-archive.fandom.com/wiki/Quest:Wrangle_Some_Aether_Rays!
https://www.facebook.com/sharer/sharer.php?u=https://mtg.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherborn
https://www.reddit.com/submit?url=https://mtg.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherborn&title=Check+out+Aetherborn+on+MTG+Wiki+via+@CurseGamepedia:+https://mtg.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherborn
https://www.tumblr.com/share/link?url=https://mtg.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherborn&name=MTG+Wiki&description=Check+out+Aetherborn+on+MTG+Wiki+via+@CurseGamepedia:+https://mtg.fandom.com/wiki/Aetherborn
Aether
Aether (classical element)
Aether drag hypothesis
Aetheria
Aetherie fritillary
Aetherius Society
Aether (mythology)
Aether theories
Aether (video game)
A History of the Theories of Aether and Electricity
Argiope aetherea
Einstein aether theory
Heinz Raether
Isorrhoa aetheria
Kolbjrn Saether
Luminiferous aether
Rivals of Aether
Timeline of luminiferous aether



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