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!

If in many of my productions terror has been the thesis, I maintain that terror is not of Germany, but of the soul.

Every moment of the night Forever changing places And they put out the star-light With the breath from their pale faces

Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made.

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

Scorching my seared heart with a pain, not hell shall make me fear again.

Out- out are the lights- out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, While the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, "Man," And its hero the Conqueror Worm.