I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.

To vilify a great man is the readiest way in which a little man can himself attain greatness.

There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.

I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.

I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.

The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.

There is an eloquence in true enthusiasm.

I have great faith in fools; self-confidence my friends call it.

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.

I have no faith in human perfectability. I think that human exertion will have no appreciable effect upon humanity. Man is now only more active - not more happy - nor more wise, than he was 6000 years ago.

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.

Experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger portion of the truth arises from the seemingly irrelevant.

They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.

The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.

We loved with a love that was more than love.

There are few cases in which mere popularity should be considered a proper test of merit; but the case of song-writing is, I think, one of the few.

Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it 'the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.'

The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?

If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.

I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty.

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

In one case out of a hundred a point is excessively discussed because it is obscure; in the ninety-nine remaining it is obscure because it is excessively discussed.

I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.

Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.

Man's real life is happy, chiefly because he is ever expecting that it soon will be so.

In criticism I will be bold, and as sternly, absolutely just with friend and foe. From this purpose nothing shall turn me.

Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.

It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.

A strong argument for the religion of Christ is this - that offences against Charity are about the only ones which men on their death-beds can be made - not to understand - but to feel - as crime.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.

Of puns it has been said that those who most dislike them are those who are least able to utter them.

Stupidity is a talent for misconception.

It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream.

That man is not truly brave who is afraid either to seem or to be, when it suits him, a coward.

The rudiment of verse may, possibly, be found in the spondee.

With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.

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.

All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry.

I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect - in terror.

Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence.

The generous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to admire.

Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.

It is the nature of truth in general, as of some ores in particular, to be richest when most superficial.

The true genius shudders at incompleteness - and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be.

Years of love have been forgot. In the hatred of a minute.

To die laughing must be the most glorious of all glorious deaths.

I have great faith in fools self-confidence my friends will call it.

The death of a beautiful woman is questionably the most poetic topic in the world.