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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.
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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.
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We gave the Future to the winds, and slumbered tranquilly in the Present, weaving the dull world around us into dreams.
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Believe only half of what you see and nothing that you hear.
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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.
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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.
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It may be roundly asserted that human ingenuity cannot concoct a cipher which human ingenuity cannot resolve.
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If you are ever drowned or hung, be sure and make a note of your sensations.
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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 Leonore - For the rare and radiant maiden who the angels name Lenore - Nameless here for evermore.
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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.
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A poem in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having for its immediate object, pleasure, not truth.
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False hope is nicer than no hope at all.
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Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore.
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Literature is the most noble of professions. In fact, it is about the only one fit for a man.
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There are moments when, even to the sober eye of Reason, the world of our sad humanity must assume the aspect of Hell.
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In for ever knowing, we are for ever blessed; but to know all were the curse of a fiend...
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Every moment of the night Forever changing places And they put out the star-light With the breath from their pale faces...
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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.
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Yes," I said, "for the love of God!
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Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.