Edgar Allan Poe Quotes

Edgar Allan Poe Quotes

The higher powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more usefully tasked by the ostentatious game of droughts than by all the elaborate frivolity of chess.

 

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

 

I heed not that my earthly lot Hath – little of Earth in it – That years of love have been forgetting In the hatred of a minute: – I mourn not that the desolate Are happier, sweet than I, But that you sorrow for my fate Who am a passer-by.

 

In the one instance, the dreamer loses sight of this object in a wilderness of deductions and suggestions until he finds the incitement, or first cause of his musings, forgotten. In my case, the primary object was invariably frivolous, although assuming, through the medium of my distempered vision, a refracted and unreal importance.

 

Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.

 

 

In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed- But a waking dream of life and light Hath left me broken-hearted. Ah! what is not a dream by day to him whose eyes are cast On things around him with a ray Turned back upon the past? That holy dream- that holy dream, while all the world was chiding, Hath cheered me as a lovely beam A lonely spirit guiding. What though that light, threw’ storm and night, So trembled from afar- What could there be more purely bright In Truth’s day-star?

 

That pleasure which is at once the purest, the most elevating and the most intense, is derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the beautiful.

 

Hay alga an el generous y abnegate amour de UN animal we legal directorate AL Corona de aqua we con frequencies a probed la false Amidst y la fragile fielded del hombre.

 

In the marginalia … we talk only to ourselves; we, therefore, talk freshly – boldly – originally – with abandonment – without conceit.

 

 

The death then of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover.

 

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.

 

 

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

 

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

 

If we examine a work of ordinary art, by means of a powerful microscope, all traces of resemblance to nature will disappear – but the closest scrutiny of the photogenic drawing discloses only more absolute truth, a more perfect identity of aspect with the thing represented.

 

Art is to look at not to criticize.

 

The usual derivation of the word Metaphysics is not to be sustained the science is supposed to take its name from its superiority to physics. The truth is, that Aristotle’s treatise on Morals is next in succession to his Book of Physics.

 

A fearful instance of the ill consequences attending upon irascibility – alive, with the qualifications of the dead – dead, with the propensities of the living – an anomaly on the face of the earth – being very calm, yet breathless.

 

 

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.’

 

And so being young and dipped in folly I fell in love with melancholy.

 

Deep in the earth, my love is lying And I must weep alone.

 

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

 

There is then no analogy whatever between the operations of the Chess-Player and those of the calculating machine of Mr. Babbage, and if we choose to call the former the pure machine we must be prepared to admit that it is, beyond all comparison, the most wonderful of the inventions of mankind.

 

I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.

 

 

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee

 

…And, all at once, the moon arouses through the thin ghastly mist, and was crimson in color… And they lynx which dwelled forever in the tomb came out therefrom. And lay down at the feet of the demon. And looked at him steadily in the face.

 

Were the succession of stars endless, then the background of the sky would present us a uniform luminosity, like that displayed by the Galaxy-since there could be absolutely no point, in all that background, at which would not exist a star. The only mode, therefore, in which, under such a state of affairs, we could comprehend the voids which our telescopes find in innumerable directions, would be by supposing the distance of the invisible background so immense that no ray from it has yet been able to reach us at all.

 

I never can hear a crowd of people singing and gesticulating, all together, at an Italian opera, without fancying myself at Athens, listening to that particular tragedy, by Sophocles, in which he introduces a full chorus of turkeys, who set about bewailing the death of Mel eager.

 

The word “Verse” is used here as the term most convenient for expressing, and without pedantry, all that is involved in the consideration of rhythm, rhyme, meter, and versification… the subject is exceedingly simple; one-tenth of it possibly may be called ethical; nine-tenths, however, appertains to the mathematics.

 

The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.

 

Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence– whether much that is glorious– whether all that is profound– does not spring from disease of thought– from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect.

 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,

 

That is another of your odd notions,” said the Prefect, who had a fashion of calling everything “odd” that was beyond his comprehension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of “oddities.

 

doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.

 

We loved with a love that was more than love.

 

Gaily bedight, a gallant knight, In the sunshine and in shadow, Had journeyed long, Singing a song, In search of Eldorado. But he grew old— This knight so bold— And o’er his heart a shadow— Fell as he found No spot of ground That looked like Eldorado. And, as his strength Failed him at length, He met a pilgrim shadow— ‘Shadow,’ said he, ‘Where can it be— This land of Eldorado?’ ‘Over the Mountains of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow, Ride, boldly ride,’ The shade replied, — ‘If you seek for Eldorado!

 

 

Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem.

 

Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them.

 

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?

 

Tell me truly, I implore– Is there– is there balm in Gilead? –tell me–tell me, I implore!

 

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

 

Yet mad I am not…and very surely do I not dream.

 

 

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

 

produces a profound or enduring, effect. There must be the steady pressing down of the stamp upon the wax.

 

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.

 

The death of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.

 

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

 

The greater amount of truth is impulsively uttered; thus the greater amount is spoken, not written.

 

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

 

From a proud tower in the town, Death looks gigantically down.

I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity.

 

There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart – an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime

 

Melancholy is … the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.

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

 

Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten golden notes, and all in tune What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens while she gloats On the moon!

It is clear that a poem may be improperly brief. Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A very short poem, while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never

 

 

There are two bodies – the rudimentary and the complete; corresponding with the two conditions of the worm and the butterfly. What we call “death,” is but the painful metamorphosis. Our present incarnation is progressive, preparatory, temporary. Our future is perfected, ultimate, immortal. The ultimate life is the full design.

 

Years of love have been forgetting, In the hatred of a minute.

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