Edgar allan poe

The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.

Man's real life is happy, chiefly because he is ever expecting that it soon will be so.

It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.

The generous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to admire.

The ninety and nine are with dreams, content but the hope of the world made new, is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true.

Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.

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?

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.

That man is not truly brave who is afraid either to seem or to be, when it suits him, a coward.

I have no faith in human perfectability. 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...