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Sep. 20th, 2005

Time for some Poetry sharing...


Alone
by: Edgar Allen Poe

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.


So I was a bit of a goth as a child, but I still love this poem...

Comments

( 3 comments — Leave a comment )
cousin_sue
Sep. 20th, 2005 12:57 pm (UTC)
oooh. Neat!

I love Edgar Allen Poe, and my work computer has received the appellation Edgar because of it.

Have you heard this one (Emily Dickinson) :

I ’M nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there ’s a pair of us—don’t tell!
They ’d banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody! 5
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
psylew
Sep. 20th, 2005 04:06 pm (UTC)
I've always enjoyed Edgar Allen Poe, but had never run across this one. Thanks for sharing :D
sedesla
Sep. 20th, 2005 06:54 pm (UTC)
I'll share one I discovered in 3rd grade.

The butterfly, a cabbage-white,
(His honest idiocy of flight)
Will never now, it is too late,
Master the art of flying straight,
Yet has--who knows so well as I?--
A just sense of how not to fly:
He lurches here and here by guess
And God and hope and hopelessness.
Even the aerobatic swift
Has not his flying-crooked gift.
( 3 comments — Leave a comment )

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