Edgar Allan Poe Quotes
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.
Never to suffer would never to have been blessed.
Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.
Scorching my seared heart with a pain, not hell shall make me fear again.
Sleep, those little slices of death; Oh how I loathe them.
Man's real life is happy, chiefly because he is ever expecting that it soon will be so.
The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.
Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.
Stupidity is a talent for misconception.
Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute.
Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of intelligence.
If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.
There is an eloquence in true enthusiasm.
All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.
To vilify a great man is the readiest way in which a little man can himself attain greatness.
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.
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.
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.
Some things are so completely ludicrous that a man must laugh or die. To die laughing must be the most glorious of all deaths.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night.
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?
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.
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.'
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.
