The object, Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and the object, Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although attainable, to a certain extent, in poetry, far more readily attainable in prose.

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.

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

The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.

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

Leave my loneliness unbroken

Always keep a big bottle of booze at your side. If a bird starts talking nonsense to you in the middle of the night pour yourself a stiff drink.