The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.

In me didst thou exist-and, in my death, see by this image, which is thine own, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself.

The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls.

You are not wrong who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.

Read this and thought of you: Through joy and through sorrow, I wrote. Through hunger and through thirst, I wrote. Through good report and through ill report, I wrote. Through sunshine and through moonshine, I wrote. What I wrote it is unnecessary to say. ~ Edgar Allen Poe

I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, "a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms.