Quote

Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever! Let the bell toll!-a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?-weep now or nevermore!

Edgar Allan Poe

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Edgar Allan Poe
Age: 40 †
Born: 1809
Born: January 19
Died: 1849
Died: October 7
Author
Crime Writer
Essayist
Journalist
Literary Critic
Literary Theorist
Lyricist
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Poe
Edgar Poe
E. A. Poe
Rivers
Weep
Nevermore
Tears
Bowl
Saintly
Broken
Bowls
Flown
Forever
Tear
Toll
Guy
Bells
Tolls
Spirit
River
Hast
Soul
Golden
Bell
Thou
Floats

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Sensations are the great things, after all. Should you ever be drowned or hung, be sure and make a note of your sensations they will be worth to you ten guineas a sheet.
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In death - no! even in the grave all is not lost. Else there is no immortality for man. Arousing from the most profound slumbers, we break the gossamer web of some dream. Yet in a second afterward, (so frail may that web have been) we remember not that we have dreamed.
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Odors have an altogether peculiar force, in affecting us through association a force differing essentially from that of objects addressing the touch, the taste, the sight or the hearing.
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Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.
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There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion.
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It is the curse of a certain order of mind, that it can never rest satisfied with the consciousness of its ability to do a thing.Still less is it content with doing it. It must both know and show how it was done.
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The analytical power should not be confounded with simple ingenuity for while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often remarkably incapable of analysis.
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If the propositions of this Discourse are tenable, the state of progressive collapse is precisely that state in which alone we are warranted in considering All Things.
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The rain came down upon my head - Unshelter'd. And the wind rendered me mad and deaf and blind.
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I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea But we loved with a love that was more than love- I and my Annabel Lee With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me.
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If a poem hasn't ripped apart your soul you haven't experienced poetry.
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Prophet! said I, thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore- Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore. Quoth the Raven, Nevermor
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Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.
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The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where she is found.
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A poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul.
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That single thought is enough. The impulse increases to a wish, the wish to a desire, the desire to an uncontrollable longing, and the longing (to the deep regret and mortification of the speaker, and in defiance of all consequences,) is indulged.
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If any ambitious man have a fancy to revolutionize, at one effort, the universal world of human thought, human opinion, and human sentiment.
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If you are ever drowned or hung, be sure and make a note of your sensations.
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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.
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Indeed, there is an eloquence in true enthusiasm that is not to be doubted.
Edgar Allan Poe