Can it be fancied that Deity ever vindictively
Made in his image a mannikin merely to madden it?
Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.
Hear the sledges with the bells, Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night, While the stars that oversprinkle All the Heavens seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight: Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- From the jingling and the tingling of the bells.
Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten golden notes, And all in tune What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens while she gloats On the moon!
Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the Nightly shore,-- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore! Quoth the Raven "Nevermore!"
I have great faith in fools--self-confidence my friends call it.
All that you see or seem, is but a dream within a dream. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. -Edgar Allan Poe.
I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.
On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome.
Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow-- You are not wrong who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.
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 spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I loved, I loved alone.
The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.
With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.
Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.
And still the Raven, never flitting, Still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas Just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming Of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming Throws his shadow on the floor, And my soul from out that shadow, That lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted--nevermore.
Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the Nightly shore,-- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore! Quoth the Raven "Nevermore!"
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 spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I loved, I loved alone.
Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow-- You are not wrong who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.
Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.
The murmur that springs From the growing of grass.