Edgar Allan Poe

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

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

Stupidity is a talent for misconception.

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

We loved with a love that was more than love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.

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

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?

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

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.

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

Lord, help my poor soul.

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