Poe gives the sense for the first time in America, that literature is serious, not a matter of courtesy but of truth.
It is not fair to be old, to put on a brown sweater.
In summer, the song sings itself.
History must stay open, it is all humanity.
It is difficult to get the news from poems, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.
There is nothing beginning nor end to the imagination but it delights in its own seasons reversing the usual order at will.