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.

The poem is a capsule where we wrap up our punishable secrets.

The Moon, the dried weeds and the Pleiades - Seven feet tall the dark, dried weed stalks make a part of the night a red lace on the milky blue sky

There is nothing beginning nor end to the imagination but it delights in its own seasons reversing the usual order at will.

But time in only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter there'll be mushrooms, fairy-ring mushrooms in the grass, sweetest of all fungi.

All women are not Helen, I know that, but have Helen in their hearts.