Edgar Allan Poe

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

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While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door,
A hideous
throng rush out forever,
And laugh - but smile no more.

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

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Sleep, what slices of death, how I loathe them.

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Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart – one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of man. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a stupid action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is Law, merely because we understand it to be such?

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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 angels sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

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Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write shall have long since gone my way into the region of shadows.

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I could not love except where Death
Was mingling his with Beauty's breath ?

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My best friend would be the man who gave me a pistol that I might blow out my brains.

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And then there stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note, the thought of what sweet rest there must be in the grave.

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