Edgar Allan Poe

The murmur that springs
From the growing of grass.

The murmur that springs
From the growing of grass.

And still the Raven, never flitting,
Still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of read more

And still the Raven, never flitting,
Still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas
Just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming
Of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming
Throws his shadow on the floor,
And my soul from out that shadow,
That lies floating on the floor,
Shall be lifted--nevermore.

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

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

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