A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet...yet the fool has never read Shakespeare.
All that we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream.
And as, in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so, in fact, out of joy is sorrow born.
And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses?
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of today, or the agonies which are, have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been.
I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.
In general, it is the object of our newspapers rather to create a sensation--to make a point--than to further the cause of truth. The latter end is only pursued when it seems coincident with the former.
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?
The value of the poem is in...elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal necessity, transient.
They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.
To observe attentively is to remember distinctly.
