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

When I am alone I am happy.

It was the love of love, the love of swallows up all else, a grateful love, a love of natural, of people, of animals, a love ingengering gentleness and goodness that moved meand that I saw in you

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.

O frost bitten blossoms, That are unfolding your wings From out the envious black branches. Bloom quickly and make much of the sunshine. The twigs conspire against you! Hear hem! They hold you from behind.

Imagination though it cannot wipe out the sting of remorse can instruct the mind in its proper uses.

To refine, to clarify, to intensify that eternal moment in which we alone live there is but a single force the imagination.