I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, "a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; — This it is, and nothing more.

Lord help my poor soul.

In for ever knowing, we are for ever blessed; but to know all were the curse of a fiend

Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries

You call it hope-that fire of fire! It is but agony of desire.

You are not wrong who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.