A gentleman with a pug nose is a contradiction in terms.
A strong argument for the religion of Christ is this - that offences against Charity are about the only ones which men on their death-beds can be made - not to understand - but to feel - as crime.
All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry.
All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
As an individual, I myself feel impelled to fancy a limitless succession of Universes. Each exists, apart and independently, in the bosom of its proper and particular God.
Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
Experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger portion of the truth arises from the seemingly irrelevant.
I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity.
I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.
I have great faith in fools; self-confidence my friends call it.
I have no faith in human perfectability. I think that human exertion will have no appreciable effect upon humanity. Man is now only more active - not more happy - nor more wise, than he was 6000 years ago.
I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect - in terror.
I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.
I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty.
If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.
In criticism I will be bold, and as sternly, absolutely just with friend and foe. From this purpose nothing shall turn me.
In one case out of a hundred a point is excessively discussed because it is obscure; in the ninety-nine remaining it is obscure because it is excessively discussed.
It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream.
It is the nature of truth in general, as of some ores in particular, to be richest when most superficial.
It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.
Man's real life is happy, chiefly because he is ever expecting that it soon will be so.
Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed.
Of puns it has been said that those who most dislike them are those who are least able to utter them.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.
Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.
Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence.
Stupidity is a talent for misconception.
That man is not truly brave who is afraid either to seem or to be, when it suits him, a coward.
That pleasure which is at once the most pure, the most elevating and the most intense, is derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the beautiful.
The best chess-player in Christendom may be little more than the best player of chess; but proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all these more important undertakings where mind struggles with mind.
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?
The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.
The generous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to admire.
The ninety and nine are with dreams, content but the hope of the world made new, is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true.
The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.
The rudiment of verse may, possibly, be found in the spondee.
The true genius shudders at incompleteness - and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be.
There are few cases in which mere popularity should be considered a proper test of merit; but the case of song-writing is, I think, one of the few.
There is an eloquence in true enthusiasm.
There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.
They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.
Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night.
Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.
To vilify a great man is the readiest way in which a little man can himself attain greatness.
We loved with a love that was more than love.
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.'
With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.
Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.
To Lenore was the original title of Poe's most famous poem, The Raven.
Parents, David and Elizabeth Arnold Poe, were traveling actors.
Poe lived in New York for a while near where present day Fordham University stands.
Mark Twain disliked Poe's works saying that many of them were unreadable.
Today there are Poe Museums in Richmond, Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York.
Poe had a keen interest in cryptography as was exemplified by his short story The Gold Bug.
British playwright George Bernard Shaw called Poe the greatest literary critic of his time.
Poe influenced such writers as Jules Verne, Ray Bradbury, Arthur Conan Doyle, and H. P. Lovecraft.
Poe wrote three stories which featured a detective named C. Auguste Dupin: Murders in the Rue Morgue, Mystery of Marie Roget, and The Purloined Letter.
Poe is buried in Westminster Hall and Burying Ground in Baltimore.
Poe began drinking heavily and became increasingly unstable after his wife's death.
Poe's best known and most popular poem is The Raven.
Poe married his 13 year old cousin, Virginia Clemm, on May 16, 1836.
Poe's foster father disowned him after his dismissal from West Point.
Poe's first book was Tamerlane and Other Poems, published in 1827.
Poe enlisted as a private in the United States Army using the name Edgar A. Perry in 1827.
Poe enrolled at the University of Virginia in 1826 but only remained there one year.
After the death of his parents, Poe was taken into the home of John Allan, a Richmond, VA tobacco merchant.
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