There is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of him who, shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a Plunge.

I seemed to be upon the verge of comprehension, without the power to comprehend as men, at time, find themselves upon the brink of rememberance, without being able, in the end, to remember.

If we cannot comprehend God in his visible works, how then in his inconceivable thoughts, that call the works into being?

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting...

A mystery, and a dream, should my early life seem.

A million candles have burned themselves out. Still I read on. (Montresor)

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.