I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the Intellect or with the Conscience, it has only collateral relations. Unless, indeed, we are enabled to perceive a semblance of consequence in the construction of Beauty, or of sublimity in the two, or of truth in the three.
— Edgar Allan Poe
Modern
Horror, detective fiction