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...
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Even in the grave, all is not lost.
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Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.
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Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them.
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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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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 t...
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The death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world.
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A feeling, for which I have no name, has taken possession of my soul.
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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...
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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...
