To muse for long unwearied hours with my attention riveted to some frivolous device upon the margin, or in the typography of a book — to become absorbed for the better part of a summer's day in a quaint shadow falling aslant upon the tapestry, or upon the floor — to lose myself for an entire night in watching the steady flame of a lamp, or the embers of a fire — to dream away whole days over the perfume of a flower — to repeat monotonously some common word, until the sound, by dint of frequent repetition, ceased to convey any idea whatever to the mind — to lose all sense of motion or physical existence in a state of absolute bodily quiescence long and obstinately persevered in — Such were a few of the most common and least pernicious vagaries induced by a condition of the mental faculties, not, indeed, altogether unparalleled, but certainly bidding defiance to anything like analysis or explanation.

— Edgar Allan Poe

To vilify a great man is the readiest way in which a little man can himself attain greatness.

— Edgar Allan Poe

True, nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am, but why will say that I am mad?! The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute.

— Edgar Allan Poe

Twas noontide of summer, And mid-time of night;And stars, in their orbits, Shone pale, tho' the liftoff the brighter, cold moon,'Mid-planets her slaves, Herself in the Heavens, Her beam on the waves. I gazed awhile On her cold smile;Too cold–too cold for me-There pass'd, as a shroud, A fleecy cloud, And I turned away to thee, Proud Evening Star, In thy glory afar, And dearer thy beam shall be;For joy to my hearts the proud part Thou nearest in Heaven at night, And more I admire Thy distant fire, Than that colder, lowly light.

— Edgar Allan Poe

We loved with a love that was more than love.

— Edgar Allan Poe

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.'

— Edgar Allan Poe

When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect - they refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of soul - not of intellect, or of heart.

— Edgar Allan Poe

With me poetry has not been a purpose but a passion.

— Edgar Allan Poe

With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.

— Edgar Allan Poe

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

— Edgar Allan Poe