Our list of Edgar Allan Poe Quotes
We loved with a love that was more than love.
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Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.
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Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
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I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty.
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All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
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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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I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.
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They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.
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Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.
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Lord, help my poor soul.
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Stupidity is a talent for misconception.
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Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.
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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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If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.
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All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry.
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There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.
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To vilify a great man is the readiest way in which a little man can himself attain greatness.
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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.
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I have great faith in fools; self-confidence my friends call it.
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With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.
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It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream.
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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 the soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.'
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The true genius shudders at incompleteness - and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be.
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I have no faith in human perfectability. I think that human exertion will have no appreciable effect upon humanity. Man is now only more active - not more happy - nor more wise, than he was 6000 years ago.
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Of puns it has been said that those who most dislike them are those who are least able to utter them.
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The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.
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It is the nature of truth in general, as of some ores in particular, to be richest when most superficial.
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That man is not truly brave who is afraid either to seem or to be, when it suits him, a coward.
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I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity.
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The ninety and nine are with dreams, content but the hope of the world made new, is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true.
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The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.
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Experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger portion of the truth arises from the seemingly irrelevant.
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Man's real life is happy, chiefly because he is ever expecting that it soon will be so.
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It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.
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I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect - in terror.
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In criticism I will be bold, and as sternly, absolutely just with friend and foe. From this purpose nothing shall turn me.
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The generous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to admire.
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In one case out of a hundred a point is excessively discussed because it is obscure; in the ninety-nine remaining it is obscure because it is excessively discussed.
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There are few cases in which mere popularity should be considered a proper test of merit; but the case of song-writing is, I think, one of the few.
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The rudiment of verse may, possibly, be found in the spondee.
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I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio of this elevating excitement.
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A strong argument for the religion of Christ is this - that offences against Charity are about the only ones which men on their death-beds can be made - not to understand - but to feel - as crime.
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Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.
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I have great faith in fools - self-confidence my friends will call it.
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I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched.
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There is no exquisite beauty… without some strangeness in the proportion.
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I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom.
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Believe nothing you hear, and only one half that you see.
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From childhood's hour I have not been. As others were, I have not seen. As others saw, I could not awaken. My heart to joy at the same tone. And all I loved, I loved alone.
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Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them.
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Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute.
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Never to suffer would never to have been blessed.
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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– whether much that is glorious– whether all that is profound– does not spring from disease of thought– from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect.
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I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.
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Deep in earth my love is lying. And I must weep alone.
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And so being young and dipped in folly I fell in love with melancholy.
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I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow.
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I have no faith in human perfectibility. I think that human exertion will have no appreciable effect upon humanity. Man is now only more active - not more happy - nor more wise, than he was 6000 years ago.
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Invisible things are the only realities.
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The true genius shudders at incompleteness — imperfection — and usually prefers silence to saying the something which is not everything that should be said.
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