Edgar Allan Poe Quotes

11 November 2014

It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.

11 November 2014

In criticism I will be bold, and as sternly, absolutely just with friend and foe. From this purpose nothing shall turn me.

11 November 2014

Observing him in these moods, I often dwelt meditatively upon the old philosophy of the Bi-Part Soul, and amused myself with the fancy of a double Dupin—the creative and the resolvent.

11 November 2014

The Bostonians are really, as a race, far inferior in point of anything beyond mere intellect to any other set upon the continent of North America. They are decidedly the most servile imitators of the English it is possible to conceive.

11 November 2014

In the one instance, the dreamer ... loses sight of this object in a wilderness of deductions and suggestions ... until ... he finds the incitamentum, 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.

11 November 2014

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell "Whose heart-strings are a lute;" None sing so wildly well As the angel Israfel, And the giddy stars (so legends tell) Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell Of his voice, all mute.

11 November 2014

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore— Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

11 November 2014

Believe me, there exists no such dilemma as that in which a gentleman is placed when he is forced to reply to a blackguard.

11 November 2014

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 never more! See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!

11 November 2014

Some sepulcher, remote, alone, Against whose portal she hath thrown, In childhood, many an idle stone— Some tomb from out whose sounding door She ne'er shall force an echo more, Thrilling to think, poor child of sin! It was the dead who groaned within.