The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where she is found.
EDGAR ALLAN POEI became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.
More Edgar Allan Poe Quotes
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The believer is happy. The doubter is wise.
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I remained too much inside my head and ended up losing my mind.
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Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.
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We loved with a love that was more than love.
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That pleasure which is at once the most pure, the most elevating and the most intense, is derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the beautiful.
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We had always dwelled together, beneath a tropical sun, in the Valley of the Many Colored Grass.
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Convinced myself, I seek not to convince.
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Blood was its Avatar and its seal.
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All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
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The true genius shudders at incompleteness – imperfection – and usually prefers silence to saying the something which is not everything that should be said.
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A wise man hears one word and understands two.
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And so being young and dipped in folly I fell in love with melancholy.
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The ninety and nine are with dreams, content, but the hope of the world made new, is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true.
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Invisible things are the only realities.
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If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.
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I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow.
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Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore.
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The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.
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The past is a pebble in my shoe.
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To elevate the soul, poetry is necessary.
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Every poem should remind the reader that they are going to die.
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Man’s real life is happy, chiefly because he is ever expecting that it soon will be so.
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Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute.
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I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of beauty.
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As a poet and as a mathematician, he would reason well; as a mere mathematician, he could not have reasoned at all.
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Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.
EDGAR ALLAN POE