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Scorching my seared heart with a pain, not hell shall make me fear again.

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
Heart
Make
Seared
Scorching
Hell
Shall
Pain
Fear

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Sound loves to revel in a summer night.
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The mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate them only in their effects. We know of them, among other things, that they are always to their possessor, when inordinately possessed, a source of the liveliest enjoyment.
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But in the expression of the countenance, which was beaming all over with smiles, there still lurked (incomprehensible anomalyl) that fitful strain of melancholy which will ever be found inseparable from the perfection of the beautiful.
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A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet . . . yet the fool has never read Shakespeare.
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And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting...
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The realities of the world affected me as visions, and as visions only, while the wild ideas of the land of dreams became, in turn,—not the material of my every-day existence--but in very deed that existence utterly and solely in itself.
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The result of law inviolate is perfection–right–negative happiness. The result of law violate is imperfection, wrong, positive pain.
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Thy soul shall find itself alone ’Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone— Not one, of all the crowd, to pry Into thine hour of secrecy. Be silent in that solitude, Which is not loneliness—for then The spirits of the dead who stood In life before thee are again In death around thee—and their will Shall overshadow thee: be still. [...]
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And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted -- Nevermore!
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The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls.
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Whether people grow fat by joking, or whether there is something in fat itself which predisposes to a joke, I have never been quite able to determine.
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To him, who still would gaze upon the glory of the summer sun, there comes, when that sun will from him part, a sullen hopelessness of heart.
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If a man deceives me once, shame on him if he deceives me twice, shame on me.
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When a madman appears thoroughly sane, indeed, it is high time to put him in a straight jacket.
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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.
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Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells, From the bells, bells, bells.
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We allude to the short prose narrative, requiring from a half hour to one or two hours in its perusal
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Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.
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The plots of God are perfect. The Universe is a plot of God.
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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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