A Million Candles Have Burned Themselves Out.

I Must Perish In This Deplorable Folly. Thus, Thus, And Not Otherwise, Shall I Be Lost. I Dread The Events Of The Future, Not In Themselves, But In Their Results. I Shudder At The Thought Of Any, Even The Most Trivial, Incident, Which May Operate Upon This Intolerable Agitation Of Soul. I Have, Indeed, No Abhorrence Of Danger, Except In Its Absolute Effect-in Terror. In This Unnerved-in This Pitiable Condition-i Feel That The Period Will Sooner Or Later Arrive When I Must Abandon Life And Reason Together, In Some Struggle With The Grim Phantasm, Fear.

I Was Never Kinder To The Old Man Than During The Whole Week Before I Killed Him.

And So, Being Young And Dipt In Folly, I Fell In Love With Melancholy.

Once Upon A Midnight Dreary

In Efforts To Soar Above Our Nature, We Invariably Fall Below It.