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

There are moments when, even to the sober eye of Reason, the world of our sad humanity must assume the aspect of Hell.

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

Ceux qui revent eveilles ont conscience de 1000 choses qui echapent a ceux qui ne revent qu'endormis. The one who has day dream are aware of 1000 things that the one who dreams only when he sleeps will never understand. (it sounds better in french, I do what I can with my translation...)

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.'

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

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.