Edgar Allan Poe

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Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.

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They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.

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Stupidity is a talent for misconception.

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Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.

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We loved with a love that was more than love.

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Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.

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To vilify a great man is the readiest way in which a little man can himself attain greatness.

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It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.

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I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty.

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With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.

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All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry.

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The true genius shudders at incompleteness — and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be.

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I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.

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Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.

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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?

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All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.

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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.

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Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence.

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Lord, help my poor soul.

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If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.

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