Lord Help My Poor Soul.

Literature Is The Most Noble Of Professions. In Fact, It Is About The Only One Fit For A Man.

Once Upon A Midnight Dreary, While I Pondered Weak And Weary.

Men Have Called Me Mad; But The Question Is Not Yet Settled, Whether Madness Is Or Is Not The Loftiest Intelligence.

Beauty Is The Sole Legitimate Province Of The Poem.

I Need Scarcely Observe That A Poem Deserves Its Title Only Inasmuch As It Excites, By Elevating The Soul. The Value Of The Poem Is In The Ratio Of This Elevating Excitement. But All Excitements Are, Through A Psychal Necessity, Transient.