“Only” Edgar Allan Poe; poem and analysis

“Alone”: Edgar Allan Poe; poem and analysis.

Alone is a cursed poem by the American writer Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849), composed in 1829.

Solo was never published during the lifetime of Edgar Allan Poe. The original manuscript is dated March 17, 1829. In February of that year, just a month before its composition, his adoptive mother had died. Edgar Allan PoeFrances Allan.

He only saw the printing presses in September 1875, exactly twenty-six years after the mysterious death of Edgar Allan Poe. The original manuscript was found in papers kept by a Baltimore family, who gave it to Scribner’s Monthly.

It is only an autobiographical poem that expresses his feelings of depression and anguish mixed with that vague feeling of betrayal that the death of someone loved produces. In a way, his verses show a particularly tormented period in the life of a young man. EA Poewho was barely twenty years old when he composed it.

Only.
Alone, Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

Since the time of my childhood I have not been
as others were, I have not seen
as others saw, I could not bring
my passions of a simple spring.
From the same source I have not taken
my regret, I couldn’t wake up
my heart to joy with the same tone;
And everything I loved, I loved alone.
Then – in my childhood – at dawn
from the most tempestuous life, was taken
From every depth of good and bad
the mystery that still binds me:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red mountain crag,
Of the sun that revolved around me
in its golden autumn,
From the lightning in the sky
when it flew by me,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took shape
(When the rest of the Sky was blue)
Of a demon before my sight.

Read Also: Gothic poems: index of poems

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 couldn’t wake up
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 sight.