It is not what you say that matters but the manner in which you say it; there lies the secret of the ages.

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

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks of her dress in a strange bedroom-- feels the autumn dropping its silk and linen leaves about her ankles. The tawdry veined body emerges twisted upon itself like a winter wind.

Outside, the north wind, coming and passing, swelling and dying, lifts the frozen sand drives it a-rattle against the lidless windows and we may dear sit stroking the cat stroking the cat and smiling sleepily, prrrr.

Poetry demands a different material than prose. It uses another facet of the same fact... the spontaneous conformation of language as it is heard.

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

A new music is a new mind.