The eye, like a shattered mirror, multiplies the images of sorrow.
By a route obscure and lonelyHaunted by ill angels only,Where an eidolon, named NIGHT,On a black throne reigns upright,I have reached these lands but newlyFrom an ultimate dim Thule --From a wild, wei...
Every poem should remind the reader that they are going to die.
The idea of God, infinity, or spirit stands for the possible attempt at an impossible conception.
To die laughing must be the most glorious of all glorious deaths!
Over the MountainsOf the Moon,Down the Valley of the Shadow,Ride, boldly ride,The shade replied,-If you seek for Eldorado.
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore...
The agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long and final scream of despair.
On desperate seas long wont to roam Thy hyacinth hair they classic face Thy naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome.
It all depends on the robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber. - Daupin
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 m...
I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity.
I am SHADOW, and my dwelling is near to theCatacombs of Ptolemais, and hard by those dim plains of Helusionwhich border upon the foul Charonian canal. And then did we, theseven, start from our seats i...
And then there stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note, the thought of what sweet rest there must be in the grave.
In spring of youth it was my lotTo haunt of the wide world a spotThe which I could not love the less-So lovely was the lonelinessOf a wild lake, with black rock bound,And the tall pines that towered a...
The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls...
Music, when combined with a pleasurable idea, is poetry; music, without the idea, is simply music; the idea, without the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness.
Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute.
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best have gone to their eternal rest.
There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust.