Poe gives the sense for the first time in America, that literature is serious, not a matter of courtesy but of truth.

History must stay open, it is all humanity.

My surface is myself. Under which to witness, youth is buried. Roots? Everybody has roots.

The instant trivial as it is is all we have unless-unless things the imagination feeds upon, the scent of the rose, startle us anew.

My first poem was a bolt from the blue … it broke a spell of disillusion and suicidal despondence. ... it filled me with soul satisfying joy.

Either I exist or I do not exist, and no amount of pap which I happen to be lapping can dull me to the loss.

As birds' wings beat the solid air without which none could fly so words freed by the imagination affirm reality by their flight.