There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, and looking them piteously in the eyes — die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed.
Edgar Allan Poe
To elevate the soul, poetry is necessary.
Let me glimpse inside your velvet bones.
It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.
Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.
Even in the grave, all is not lost.