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

In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed-- But a waking dream of life and light Hath left me broken-hearted.

We now demand the light artillery of the intellect; we need the curt, the condensed, the pointed, the readily diffused -- in place of the verbose, the detailed, the voluminous, the inaccessible.

A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.

If a poem hasn't ripped apart your soul; you haven't experienced poetry.

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