Alas! for that accursed time They bore thee o'er the billow, From love to titled age and crime, And an unholy pillow! From me, and from our misty clime, Where weeps the silver willow!

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

To be thoroughly conversant with Man’s heart, is to take our final lesson in the iron-clasped volume of Despair

The generous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to admire.

Not hear it? --yes, I hear it, and have heard it. Long --long --long --many minutes, many hours, many days, have I heard it --yet I dared not --oh, pity me, miserable wretch that I am! --I dared not --I dared not speak! We have put her living in the tomb!

He must be theory-mad beyond redemption who ... shall ... persist in attempting to reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth.

I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect - in terror.