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For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful...more

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Even in the grave, all is not lost.

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Lord help my poor soul.

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

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If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.

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Every poem should remind the reader that they are going to die.

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The death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world.

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In our endeavors to recall to memory something long forgotten, we often find ourselves upon the very verge of remembrance, without being able, in the ...more

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Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wished the morrow; — v...more

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And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red D...more

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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?

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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, n...more