by Edgar Allan 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 it`s autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning of 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.
Come the end, the thunder and storm of life is something that Edgar could not cope with, and so the fragile vessel of his troubled soul drowned beneath the waves of anxiety and despair.
Being an ongoing depressive of some experience, I can equate the feelings that weighed so heavily upon Edgar`s mind; things that are small and without consequence to normal people, take on a grotesque shape of humongous proportions, that flutter and circle one`s head, pecking, clammering for attention, and sapping energy and spirit.
This poem speaks to all of us who wander in the wastelands, looking for an oasis of light that will illuminate the darkness, and bring peace to the soul.
To be different, is a burden of some weight in a society that moves like a herd. The sheeple feel uncomfortable with anything, and anyone that does not conform.
Bless Edgar, and all who sail the same sea.