Edgar Allan Poe Quotes
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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.
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And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.
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You call it hope-that fire of fire! It is but agony of desire.
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'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!'
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A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet . . . yet the fool has never read Shakespeare.
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Here once, through an alley Titanic,Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul - Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
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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.
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I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him.
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Years of love have been forgotIn the hatred of a minute.
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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.
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Thou wast that all 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.
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A million candles have burned themselves out. Still I read on.
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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.
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Thou wouldst be loved? - then let thy heartFrom 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.
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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.
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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!
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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.
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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 OctoberOf my most immemorial year.
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Grammar is the analysis of language.
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Perversity is the human thirst for self-torture.
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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.
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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!
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In the deepest slumber-no! In delirium-no! In a swoon-no! In death-no! even in the grave all is not lost.
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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.