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Danh ngôn của Edgar Allan Poe (Sứ mệnh: 3)

We loved with a love that was more than love.
I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty.
I have great faith in fools; self-confidence my friends call it.
All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
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.
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 ago.
Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.
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 soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.'
There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.
The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.
With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.
They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.
A strong argument for the religion of Christ is this - that offences against Charity are about the only ones which men on their death-beds can be made - not to understand - but to feel - as crime.
Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.
Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence.
All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry.
It is the nature of truth in general, as of some ores in particular, to be richest when most superficial.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.
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.
Experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger portion of the truth arises from the seemingly irrelevant.
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?