Edgar Allan Poe Quotes (page 4)
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The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.
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Scorching my seared heart with a pain, not hell shall make me fear again.
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Sleep, those little slices of death; Oh how I loathe them.
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All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
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With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.
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