No thinking being lives who, at some luminous point of his life of thought, has not felt himself lost amid the surges of futile efforts at understanding, or believing, that anything exists greater than his own soul.
Edgar Allan Poe
Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day; or the agonies which are have their origins in ecstasies which might have been.
I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth.I heard many things in hell.
The mountainous surges suggest the idea of innumerable dumb gigantic fiends struggling in impotent agony.
I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of beauty.
And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses?