1830                                  
                                                                            
                                     ALONE                                  
                                                                            
                               by Edgar Allan Poe                           
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
ALONE                                                                       
                      Alone                                                 
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        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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                   -THE END-