A short story must have a single mood and every sentence must build towards it.

The rain came down upon my head - Unshelter'd. And the wind rendered me mad and deaf and blind.

I have made no money. I am as poor now as ever I was in my life - except in hope, which is by no means bankable.

Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells, From the bells, bells, bells.

Indeed, there is an eloquence in true enthusiasm that is not to be doubted.

Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem.

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