Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem per se, the circumstance ... which, in the first place, gave rise to the intention of composing a poem that should suit at once the popular and the critical taste.

The Bostonians are really, as a race, far inferior in point of anything beyond mere intellect to any other set upon the continent of North America. They are decidedly the most servile imitators of the English it is possible to conceive.

Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence.

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.

I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow.

In me didst thou exist-and, in my death, see by this image, which is thine own, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself.

Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them.