Edgar Allan Poe Quotes

“Hey," said Shadow. "Huginn or Muninn, or whoever you are."
The bird turned, head tipped, suspiciously, on one side, and it stared at him with bright eyes.
"Say 'Nevermore,'" said Shadow.
"Fuck you," said the raven.”
― Neil Gaiman, American Gods

“Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence.”
― Edgar Allan Poe

“Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best have gone to their eternal rest.”
― Edgar Allan Poe, Poems

“I saw thee once - only once - years ago:
I must not say how many - but not many.
It was a July midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber,
Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared stir, unless on tiptoe -
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death -
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That smiled and died in the parterre, enchanted
By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.

Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
I saw thee half reclining; while the moon
Fell upon the upturn'd faces of the roses,
And on thine own, upturn'd - alas, in sorrow!

Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight -
Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,)
That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footsteps stirred: the hated world all slept,
Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven! - oh, G**!
How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)
Save only thee and me. I paused - I looked -
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind the garden was enchanted!)
The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses' odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All - all expired save thee - save less than thou:
Save only divine light in thine eyes -
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
I saw but them - they were the world to me.
I saw but them - saw only them for hours -
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
How dark a wo! yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How daring an ambition! yet how deep -
How fathomless a capacity for love!
But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained.
They would not go - they never yet have gone.
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since.
They follow me - they lead me through the years.
They are my ministers - yet I their slave.
Their office is to illumine and enkindle -
My duty, to be saved by their bright fire,
And purified in their electric fire,
And sanctified in their elysian fire.
They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope,)
And are far up in Heaven - the stars I kneel to
In the sad, silent watches of my night;
While even in the meridian glare of day
I see them still - two sweetly scintillant
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!”
― Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven and Other Poems

“To Helen

I saw thee once-once only-years ago;
I must not say how many-but not many.
It was a july midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber
Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe-
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light
Thier odorous souls in an ecstatic death-
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted by thee, by the poetry of thy prescence.

Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
I saw thee half reclining; while the moon
Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses
And on thine own, upturn'd-alas, in sorrow!

Was it not Fate that, on this july midnight-
Was it not Fate (whose name is also sorrow)
That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footstep stirred; the hated world all slept,
Save only thee and me. (Oh Heaven- oh, God! How my heart beats in coupling those two worlds!)
Save only thee and me. I paused- I looked-
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)

The pearly lustre of the moon went out;
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses' odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All- all expired save thee- save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes-
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
I saw but them- they were the world to me.
I saw but them- saw only them for hours-
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How daring an ambition!yet how deep-
How fathomless a capacity for love!

But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
Into western couch of thunder-cloud;
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained.
They would not go- they never yet have gone.
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since.

They follow me- they lead me through the years.
They are my ministers- yet I thier slave
Thier office is to illumine and enkindle-
My duty, to be saved by thier bright light,
And purified in thier electric fire,
And sanctified in thier Elysian fire.
They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),
And are far up in heaven- the stars I kneel to
In the sad, silent watches of my night;
While even in the meridian glare of day
I see them still- two sweetly scintillant
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!”
― Edgar Allen Poe

“I have been happy, though in a dream.
I have been happy-and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid colouring of life
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife”
― Edgar Allan Poe

“Twas noontide of summer,
And mid-time of night;
And stars, in their orbits,
Shone pale, thro' the light
Of the brighter, cold moon,
'Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,
Her beam on the waves.
I gazed awhile
On her cold smile;
Too cold–too cold for me-
There pass'd, as a shroud,
A fleecy cloud,
And I turned away to thee,
Proud Evening Star,
In thy glory afar,
And dearer thy beam shall be;
For joy to my heart
Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
And more I admire
Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light.”
― Edgar Allan Poe, The Complete Poetry

“The best chess-player in Christendom may be little more than the best player of chess; but proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all those more important undertakings where mind struggles with mind.”
― Edgar Allan Poe

“From the dim regions beyond the mountains at the upper end of our encircled domain, there crept out a narrow and deep river, brighter than all save the eyes of Eleonora; and, winding stealthily about in mazy courses, it passed away, at length, through a shadowy gorge, among hills still dimmer than those whence it had issued. We called it the" River of Silence "; for there seemed to be a hushing influence in its flow. No murmur arose from its bed, and so gently it wandered along, that the pearly pebbles upon which we loved to gaze, far down within its bosom, stirred not at all, but lay in a motionless content, each in its own old station, shining on gloriously forever.”
― Edgar Allan Poe, Eleonora

“..bear in mind that, in general, it is the object of our newspapers rather to create a sensation-to make a point-than to further the cause of truth." Dupin in "The Mystery of Marie Roget”
― Edgar Allan Poe, The Mystery of Marie Rogêt

“The End of the Raven

"On a night quite unenchanting, when the rain was downward slanting
I awakened to the ranting of the man I catch mice for.
Tipsy and a bit unshaven, in a tone I found quite craven,
Poe was talking to a Raven perched above the chamber door.
'Raven's very tasty,' thought I, as I tiptoed o'er the floor.
'There is nothing I like more.'

[...]

Still the Raven never fluttered, standing stock-still as he uttered
In a voice that shrieked and sputtered, his two cents' worth -- 'Nevermore.'
While this dirge the birdbrain kept up, oh, so silently I crept up,
Then I crouched and quickly leapt up, pouncing on the feathered bore.
Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore --
Only this and not much more.”
― Henry N. Beard, Poetry for Cats: The Definitive Anthology of Distinguished Feline Verse

“THOU wast all that to me, love,
For which my soul did pine:
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
"On! on!" —but o'er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast.

For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o'er!
No more—no more—no more—
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar.

And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy gray eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams—
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.”
― Edgar Allan Poe To One in Paradise

“An enthusiasm for Poe is the mark of a decidedly primitive stage of reflection. Baudelaire thought him a profound philosopher... Poe was much the greater charlatan of the two, as well as the greater genius.”
― Henry James, French Poets and Novelists

“I have not only labored solely for the benefit of others (receiving for myself a miserable pittance), but have been forced to model my thoughts at the will of men whose imbecility was evident to all but themselves"
— Edgar Allan Poe”
― Daniel Stashower, The Beautiful Cigar Girl: Mary Rogers, Edgar Allan Poe, and the Invention of Murder

“I loathed her with a hatred belonging more to demon than to man.”
― Edgar Allan Poe, Ligeia

“That she loved me I should not have doubted; and I might have been easily aware that, in a bosom such as hers, love would have regained no ordinary passion. But in death only was I fully impressed with the strength of her affection.”
― Edgar Allan Poe, Ligeia

“Deep in the collective psyche, religious sectors, beset by morality and tormented by their own inner shadows, issue a silent plea to the great system that rules our lives. They desperately seek to avoid the incandescent glare of truth, fearing that its revealing light will free them from the chains they themselves have forged. Thus they remain in a state of denial. Thus they live, clinging like sows to the gestation of their perversities, as if in that fertile soil they would find the seed of their salvation." --From the book The Devil's Writer”
― Marcos Orowitz, Talent for Horror: Homage to Edgard Allan Poe

“I have great faith in fools--self-confidence my friends will call it.' -- EDGAR ALLAN POE”
― Mark Dawidziak, A Mystery of Mysteries: The Death and Life of Edgar Allan Poe

“It’s a case of mistaken identity. It’s one big mistake. You weren’t even in the country when it happened.”

Maja in the short story 'Metro' by Steen Langstrup”
― Steen Langstrup, Metro

“Hi, my name is Marcos, I am a naturalized urban writer of Argentine nationality.
I have bad news for you! Amazon removed my works from the platform because I promoted my new books on other platforms and not with them, but it doesn't matter, despite not having received a cent from them for two years, I have good news! I have 150 works available on my fandom page: novels and stories of horror, mystery, suspense, science fiction, romance, poems and thoughts, stories for children and critical political thinking.
I thank everyone and you can visit me.”
― Marcos Orowitz

“I am about to break into a dimension of the impossible. To enter this realm., I must set my mind (hypnotize myself) free from the earthly fetters that bind it. If the events to witness are unbelievable, it is only because my imagination is chained. So I now sit back, relax, and believe...so that I may cross the brink of time and space...into that land we sometimes visit in our dreams -- my horrific forsaken dreams.”
― Chris Mentillo, Obliterated: Everything is About To Change

“The mental features discoursed of as the
analytical, are, in themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate
them only in their effects. We know of them, among other things, that they are
always to their possessor, when inordinately possessed, a source of the liveliest
enjoyment. As the strong man exults in his physical ability, delighting in such
exercises as call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that moral
activity which disentangles. He derives pleasure from even the most trivial
occupations bringing his talents into play. He is fond of enigmas, of
conundrums, of hieroglyphics; exhibiting in his solutions of each a degree of
acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension preternatural. His results,
brought about by the very soul and essence of method, have, in truth, the whole
air of intuition.”
― Edgar Allan Poe, The Murders in the Rue Morgue

“That man, as a race, should not become extinct, I saw that he must be born again.”
― Edgar Allan Poe, The Colloquy of Monos and Una

“All the facts are united by a mysterious chain.”
― Jules Verne

“Que el mundo de fuera se ocupase de sí mismo. Mientras tanto, era estúpido lamentarse o pensar. Había bufones, había trovadores, había bailarinas, había músicos, había Belleza, había vino. Dentro había todo eso, y también seguridad. Fuera estaba la Muerte Roja.”
― Edgar Allan Poe, The Masque of the Red Death

“Y reconocieron la presencia de la Muerte Roja. Había venido como un ladrón en la noche. Y uno a uno fueron cayendo los presentes en los salones antes festivos, ahora bañados en sangre, y cada uno hallaba la muerte en la desesperada postura en que caía. Y la vida del reloj de ébano se apagó con la del último cortesano. Y las llamas de los trípodes se extinguieron. Y de todo se adueñó la Tiniebla, la Corrupción y la Muerte Roja.”
― Edgar Allan Poe, The Masque of the Red Death

“The final phrases of Eureka aspire to an era when humanity will collectively merge in union with God. And as we saw before the final phrases of Poe’s works always aspire to this return to the original source, whereas man is faced before the truth, and not yet the universal truth of oneness, but a conclusion that aspires to this call to emergence within the divine. This pantheistic notion that he called to in his works became a multi-universal realization in Eureka. Poe reflected everything on God and God to everything but also celebrated that individuality of Man and he saw it as the reflection of God. In this view, each becomes his own God with unlimited powers of creativity through which he too builds his own universe within another universe, and potentially many other universes. What happens afterward, is something we have to find ourselves. But what Poe displayed in his works to us was the perfect example of Jungian Individuation, of gnostic solar consciousness, mystical experience and cosmological unity all condensed in a short lifetime of Poe’s most metaphysical and divine works.”
― Benarrioua Aniss

“Star of resplendent front! thy glorious eye
Shines on me still from out yon clouded sky, —
Shines on me through the horrors of a night
More drear than ever fell o'er day so bright, —
Shines till the envious Serpent slinks away,
And pales and trembles at thy steadfast ray.

Hast thou not stooped from heaven, fair star! to be
So near me in this hour of agony? —
So near, — so bright, — so glorious, that I seem
To lie entranced as in some wondrous dream, —
All earthly joys forgot, — all earthly fear,
Purged in the light of thy resplendent sphere:
Kindling within my soul a pure desire
To blend with thine its incandescent fire, —
To lose my very life in thine, and be
Soul of thy soul through all eternity.”
― Sarah Helen Whitman

“The Poe Toaster by Stewart Stafford

They call me The Poe Toaster,
A sixty-year mourner, no boaster,
With roses and cognac, I paid homage,
To gothic Quarles’ eternal foggage.

Some call me ghoul, stalker, graver,
Obsessed fan, tombstone trader,
Let him sleep unbroken, still his ghost,
Tomahawk, overdue a tribute toast.

Three roses; in-law, Eddy and wife,
Cognac, exorbitant luxury in life,
Relax, for I was kind, my friend,
Pouring amontillado until the end.

Why I stopped, if I'm woman or man,
Are mysteries for C. Auguste Dupin,
Shipwrecked on Night’s Plutonian shore,
Allied with the silken darkness of yore.

© Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“The glow of the fireside poets failed to warm a world coping with the cold realities of a new century. Their light faded as we became less sure of comforting messages and more intrigued by Poe's troubling questions. 'We recognize Poe's modern view of the dark side of humanity,' said Jeffrey A. Savoye of the Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore. 'We don't expect sentimental moralizing. So we've embraced the very thing that made Poe distasteful in his own era.”
― Mark Dawidziak, A Mystery of Mysteries: The Death and Life of Edgar Allan Poe