Written in 1830 when Poe was 21; a poem that still speaks to and for the misfits of society. Though he had a deep relationship with the darker sensibilities of life, it was a passionate existence none the less; in fact, perhaps all the more for the suffering, as he was acutely attuned to the finer tunings of the inner worlds of emotions.
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view
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