Poe gives the sense for the first time in America, that literature is serious, not a matter of courtesy but of truth.
Death will be too late to bring us aid.
My surface is myself. Under which to witness, youth is buried. Roots? Everybody has roots.
A poem is a small machine made out of words.
The beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
A profusion of pink roses being ragged in the rain speaks to me of all gentleness and its enduring.