You call it hope — that fire of fire! It is but agony of desire.

That holy dream—that holy dream, While all the world were chiding, Hath cheered me as a lovely beam A lonely spirit guiding.

In the deepest slumber-no! In delirium-no! In a swoon-no! In death-no! even in the grave all is not lost.

If Pierre Bon-Bon had his failings--and what great man has not a thousand?--if Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, had his failings, they were failings of very little importance--faults indeed which, in other tempers, have often been looked upon rather in the light of virtues.

It is evident that we are hurrying onward to some exciting knowledge—some never-to-be-imparted secret, whose attainment is destruction.

Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of 18—, I there became acquainted with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin.

We will say, then, that I am mad. I grant, at least, that there are two distinct conditions of my mental existence—the condition of a lucid reason, not to be disputed, and belonging to the memory of events forming the first epoch of my life—and.

We had always dwelled together, beneath a tropical sun, in the Valley of the Many Colored Grass.

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

And the raven quote, nevermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain.

It was night, and the rain fell; and falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall and the rain fell upon my head—and the lilies sighed one unto the other in the solemnity of their desolation.

There seemed a deep sense of life and joy about all; and although no airs blew from out the Heavens, yet everything had motion through the gentle sweepings to and fro of innumberable butterflies, that might have been mistaken for tullips with wings.

There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust.

December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Believe nothing you hear, and only one half that you see.

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

It was well said of a certain German book that ‘er lasst sich nicht lesen—it does not permit itself to be read.

It is a happiness to wonder; -- it is a happiness to dream.

Misery is manifold.

Now this is the point. You fancy me a mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded...

I kneel, an altered and an humble man, Amid thy shadows, and so drink within My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!

Every poem should remind the reader that they are going to die.

Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend! I shrieked, upstarting.

As I imagined, the ship proves to be in a current; if that appellation can properly be given to a tide, which, howling and shrieking by the white ice, thunders on to the southward with a velocity like the headlong dashing of a cataract.

With me poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be held in reverence: they must not — they cannot at will be excited, with an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of mankind.

I have not only labored solely for the benefit of others (receiving for myself a miserable pittance), but have been forced to model my thoughts at the will of men whose imbecility was evident to all but themselves.

Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it 'the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.'

That which you mistake for madness is but an overacuteness of the senses.

For eyes we have no models in the remotely antique.

Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action for no other reason than because he knows he should not?

So resolute is the world to despise anything which carries with it an air of simplicity.

Prophet! said I, thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil!

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

He is fond of enigmas, of conundrums, of hieroglyphics; exhibiting in his solutions of each a degree of acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension præternatural.

Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted -- Nevermore!

I am walking like a bewitched corpse, with the certainty of being eaten by the infinite, of being annulled by the only existing Absurd.

Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftie

FOR the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not -- and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I would unburthen my soul.

When I was young and filled with folly, I fell in love with melancholy.

He begged me not to be impatient—to moderate my transports—to read soothing books—to drink nothing stronger than Hock—and to bring the consolations of philosophy to my aid. The fool! if he could not come himself, why, in the name of every thing rational, could he not have enclosed me a letter of presentation?

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.

We loved with a love that was more than love.

The look on his face frightened me terribly, but at the same time I was pleased not to be alone any more.

From childhood's hour I have not been. As others were, I have not seen. As others saw, I could not awaken. My heart to joy at the same tone. And all I loved, I loved alone.

A strong argument for the religion of Christ is this - that offenses against Charity are about the only ones which men on their death-beds can be made - not to understand - but to feel - as crime.

Man's real life is happy, chiefly because he is ever expecting that it soon will be so.

Did there not cross your mind some thought of the physical power of words? Is not every word an impulse on the air?