Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development,
the sensitive soul to tears.
Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.
To vilify a great man is the readiest way in which a little man can himself attain greatness.
All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
That man is not truly brave who is afraid either to seem or to be, when it suits him, a coward.
The true genius shudders at incompleteness - and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be.
Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence.
Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.
Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night.
I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.
I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as the Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. Its sole arbiter is Taste.
Stupidity is a talent for misconception.
We loved with a love that was more than love.
All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry.
If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.
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.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.
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.
Can it be fancied that Deity ever vindictively, Made in his image a mannikin merely to madden it?
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.
I have great faith in fools; self-confidence my friends call it.
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.
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?
They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.
I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity.
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.'
In criticism I will be bold, and as sternly, absolutely just with friend and foe. From this purpose nothing shall turn me.
The Raven - Poe's Famous Poem
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