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

But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch's high estate; (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow Shall dawn upon him desolate!) And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed, Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.

In efforts to soar above our nature, we invariably fall below it.

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!

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

Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it 'the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.'

To him, who still would gaze upon the glory of the summer sun, there comes, when that sun will from him part, a sullen hopelessness of heart.