Popular Edgar Allan Poe Quotes

Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute.


Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.


The greater amount of truth is impulsively uttered; thus the greater amount is spoken, not written.


In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed- But a waking dream of life and light Hath left me broken-hearted. Ah! what is not a dream by day to him whose eyes are cast On things around him with a ray Turned back upon the past? That holy dream- that holy dream, while all the world was chiding, Hath cheered me as a lovely beam A lonely spirit guiding. What though that light, threw’ storm and night, so trembled from afar- What could there be more purely bright In Truth’s day-star?


I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity.


Hay alga an el generous y abnegate amour de UN animal we legal directorate AL Corona de aqua we con frequencies a probed la false Amidst y la fragile fielded del hombre.


Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem.


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.


In the marginalia … we talk only to ourselves; we therefore talk freshly – boldly – originally – with abandonment – without conceit.


Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.


Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence.


Yet mad I am not…and very surely do I not dream.


Tell me truly, I implore– Is there– is there balm in Gilead? –tell me–tell me, I implore!


Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,
doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.


That is another of your odd notions,” said the Prefect, who had a fashion of calling everything “odd” that was beyond his comprehension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of “oddities.


The usual derivation of the word Metaphysics is not to be sustained the science is supposed to take its name from its superiority to physics. The truth is, that Aristotle’s treatise on Morals is next in succession to his Book of Physics.


Art is to look at not to criticize.


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.’


Deep in earth my love is lying And I must weep alone.


A fearful instance of the ill consequences attending upon irascibility – alive, with the qualifications of the dead – dead, with the propensities of the living – an anomaly on the face of the earth – being very calm, yet breathless.


And so being young and dipped in folly I fell in love with melancholy.


All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry.


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?


I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.


There is then no analogy whatever between the operations of the Chess-Player, and those of the calculating machine of Mr. Babbage, and if we choose to call the former a pure machine we must be prepared to admit that it is, beyond all comparison, the most wonderful of the inventions of mankind.


The higher powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more usefully tasked by the ostentatious game of droughts than by all the elaborate frivolity of chess.


There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart – an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime


All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry.


For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee


…And, all at once, the moon arouses through the thin ghastly mist, and was crimson in colour… And they lynx which dwelled forever in the tomb, came out therefrom. And lay down at the feet of the demon. And looked at him steadily in the face.


Melancholy is … the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.


All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.


Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them.


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?