Tell me truly, I implore-- Is there-- is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!

I intend to put up with nothing that I can put down.

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

It would be mockery to call such dreariness heaven at all.

You need not attempt to shake off or to banter off Romance. It is an evil you will never get rid of to the end of your days. It is a part of yourself ... of your soul. Age will only mellow it a little, and give it a holier tone.

I heed not that my earthly lot Hath - little of Earth in it - That years of love have been forgot In the hatred of a minute: - I mourn not that the desolate Are happier, sweet, than I, But that you sorrow for my fate Who am a passer by.

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting...