All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.
I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.
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.
Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.
Only three left:
With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.
“It has been a long while since any artificial stimulus has passed my lips. . . I am done forever with drink -- depend upon that -- but there is much more in this matter than meets the eye" (Ostrom, Letters, p. 326).
A wonderful writer, an entertaining one, a tragic one…a man who died discovered in another man’s cloths, alone in an alley, smelling of whiskey… in love with the beauty of words.
The sign of any great writer, Poe’s stories are timeless.
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