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.

Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors ... on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed.

Literature is the most noble of professions. In fact, it is about the only one fit for a man.

Never to suffer would have been never to have been blessed.

There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion.

If you are ever drowned or hung, be sure and make a note of your sensations.

Now this is the point. You fancy me a mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded.