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The eye, like a shattered mirror, multiplies the images of sorrow

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
Mirrors
Sorrow
Eye
Like
Multiplies
Shattered
Images
Mirror

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Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
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And so, being young and dipt in folly, I fell in love with melancholy.
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Few persons can be made to believe that it is not quite an easy thing to invent a method of secret writing that shall baffle investigation. Yet it may be roundly asserted that human ingenuity cannot concoct a cipher which human ingenuity cannot resolve.
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I have been happy, though in a dream. I have been happy-and I love the theme: Dreams! in their vivid colouring of life As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
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I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.
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I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, a long poem, is simply a flat contradiction in terms.
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A poem in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having for its immediate object, pleasure, not truth.
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How much more intense is the excitement wrought in the feelings of a crowd by the contemplation of human agony, than that brought about by the most appalling spectacles of inanimate matter.
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A million candles have burned themselves out. Still I read on. (Montresor)
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And then there stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note, the thought of what sweet rest there must be in the grave.
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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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...And, all at once, the moon arouse through the thin ghastly mist, And was crimson in color... And they lynx which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom. And lay down at the feet of the demon. And looked at him steadily in the face.
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The generous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to admire.
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Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.
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Sound loves to revel in a summer night.
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Fill with mingled cream and amber, I will drain that glass again. Such hilarious visions clamber Through the chamber of my brain — Quaintest thoughts — queerest fancies Come to life and fade away What care I how time advances? I am drinking ale today.
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To speak algebraically, Mr. M. is execrable, but Mr. G. is (x + 1)- ecrable.
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Decorum -- that bug-bear which deters so many from bliss until the opportunity for bliss has forever gone by.
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All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry.
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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.
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