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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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Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence.

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

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Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!

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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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I AM come of a race noted for vigor of fancy and ardor of passion. Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or ...more

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Men have called me mad; but the question is not settled whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence -- whether much that is glorious -- whe...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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And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense?