Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them.

Even in the grave, all is not lost.

True, nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am, but why will say that I am mad?! The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute.

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!

The death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world.

Lord help my poor soul.