In reading some books we occupy ourselves chiefly with the thoughts of the author; in perusing others, exclusively with our own.

The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.

There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart - an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime

And so, being young and dipt in folly, I fell in love with melancholy.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; — This it is, and nothing more.

Invisible things are the only realities.

Yes," I said, "for the love of God!