It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee;-- And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to… — Edgar Allan Poe Copy Share Image
I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love- I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven… — Edgar Allan Poe Copy Share Image
“From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen As others saw—I could not bring My passions from a common… — Edgar Allan Poe Copy Share Image
There is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of him who, shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a… — Edgar Allan Poe Copy Share Image
To vilify a great man is the readiest way in which a little man can himself attain greatness. — Edgar Allan Poe Copy Share Image
“A skillful literary artist has constructed a tale. If wise, he has not fashioned his thoughts to accommodate his incidents; but having conceived, with… — Edgar Allan Poe Copy Share Image
“During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the… — Edgar Allan Poe Copy Share Image
Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night. — Edgar Allan Poe Copy Share Image
“I have said that the sole effect of my somewhat childish experiment—that of looking down within the tarn—had been to deepen the first singular… — Edgar Allan Poe Copy Share Image
And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams-- In what… — Edgar Allan Poe Copy Share Image
“Other friends have flown before — On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.” Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.” — Edgar Allan Poe Copy Share Image
“To the right and left, as far as the eye could reach, there lay outstretched, like ramparts of the world, lines of horridly black… — Edgar Allan Poe Copy Share Image
Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors ... on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer… — Edgar Allan Poe Copy Share Image
