I spent the better part of my weekend book-browsing in the Poetry section. I flipped through some Emily Dickinson (thinking, Well, she's not as weird as I remember) and some Chinese poetry (thinking, Now I look like a pretentious dick) and some Japanese death poetry (thinking, Hari-kari!). Then I kept coming back to Edgar Allan Poe (thinking, He was better as a poet than short story writer): the only poet I didn't hate upon first reading. Then I decided to challenge my brain by determining if I still had "The Raven" memorized.

The short answer? No. The details? I faltered after four stanzas--none of which were in order. Nevermore!

All this is only a preamble to my favorite of Poe's poems, "Alone." Even after all these years, I'm still trying to figure out why I love this poem so much. In any case, maybe you'll like it, too.

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 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--

(Hear also.)

Comments

[LK]

Oh, B, you are not alone!