Edgar Allan Poe

The murmur that springs
From the growing of grass.

The murmur that springs
From the growing of grass.

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

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

Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term art, I should call it "the Reproduction of what the read more

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 mist

Hear the sledges with the bells,
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
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Hear the sledges with the bells,
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night,
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the Heavens seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
From the jingling and the tingling of the bells.

I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.

I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.