I was putting books back on the shelf the other day at the Priestley-Forsyth Memorial Library when I discovered a book called “Favorite American Poems.” There was a section on the poems of Edgar Allan Poe. I am embarrassed to admit I’ve never read “The Raven.” When I opened the book to that poem, I noticed another he’d written called “Alone.” It is an amazing work. He describes his own soul, which gives us some idea why he wrote his stories and poems. I think you’ll enjoy this little bit of insight.
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were – 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 lov’d, I lov’d alone.
Then – in my childhood – in the dawn
Of a most stormy life – was drawn
From ev’ry 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 roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold –
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d 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.