Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence.
Invisible things are the only realities.
Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.
And so being young and dipped in folly I fell in love with melancholy.
I have no faith in human perfectibility. 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.
I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow.
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.
Deep in earth my love is lying And I must weep alone.
I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.
The best things in life make you sweaty.
If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.
All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry.
Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.
Never to suffer would never to have been blessed.
Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute.
Sleep, those little slices of death - how I loathe them.
From childhood's hour I have not been. As others were, I have not seen. As others saw, I could not awaken. My heart to joy at the same tone. And all I loved, I loved alone.
Believe only half of what you see and nothing that you hear.
There is no exquisite beauty" without some strangeness in the proportion.
I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched.
I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.
To die laughing must be the most glorious of all glorious deaths!
And I fell violently on my face.
Stupidity is a talent for misconception.
But our love was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we Of many far wiser than we And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
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.
Convinced myself, I seek not to convince.
Even in the grave, all is not lost.
Every moment of the night Forever changing places And they put out the star-light With the breath from their pale faces
It is a happiness to wonder;- it is a happiness to dream.
Yet mad I am not… and very surely do I not dream.
There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion.
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?
To elevate the soul, poetry is necessary.
Now this is the point. You fancy me a mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded...
That which you mistake for madness is but an overacuteness of the senses.
Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.
I dread the events of the future, not in themselves but in their results.
I remained too much inside my head and ended up losing my mind
There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told.