Quotes by Edgar Allan Poe

Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.  In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in waking, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret.  In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil.

Gaily bedight, A gallant knight, In sunshine and in shadow, Had journeyed long, Singing a song, In search of Eldorado. But he grew old- This knight so bold- And o'er his heart a shadow Fell as he found No spot of ground That looked like Eldorado. And, as his strength Failed him at length, He met a pilgrim shadow- "Shadow," said he, "Where can it be- This land of Eldorado?" "Over the mountains Of the moon, Down the valley of the shadow, Ride, boldly ride," The shade replied,- "If you seek for Eldorado!"

Glitter, and in that one word how much of all that is detestable do we express.

They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their grey visions they obtain glimpses of eternity.

Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night.

To Helen Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore. 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. Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand, Ah! Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land!

Lo! 'tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres. Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly -- Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Wo! That motley drama! --oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased forever more, By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness and more of Sin And Horror the soul of the plot. But see, amid the mimic rout, A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes! --it writhes! --with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And the seraphs sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued. Out - out are the lights - out all! And over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, And the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, "Man," And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

Thy soul shall find itself alone 'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone - Not one, of all the crowd, to pry Into thine hour of secrecy. Be silent in that solitude Which is not loneliness, for then The spirits of the dead who stood In life before thee are again In dead around thee, and their will Shall overshadow thee: be still. The night, tho' clear, shall frown, And the stars shall not look down From their high thrones in the heaven With light like Hope to mortals given; But their red orbs, without beam, To thy weariness shall seem As a burning and a fever Which would cling to thee forever. Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish - Now are visions ne'er to vanish; From thy spirit shall they pass No more - like dew-drops from the grass. The breeze - the breath of God - is still, And the mist upon the hill Shadowy - shadowy - yet unbroken, Is a symbol and a token, - How it hangs upon the trees, A mystery of mysteries!

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted-Nevermore!

Sonnet: To Science Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art! Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart, Vulture, whose wings are dull realities? How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise? Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies, Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car? And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star? Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, The Elfin from the green grass, and from me The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?