Enjoy Alone By Edgar Allan Poe

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Read By Stone Williams
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About Poet:
Edgar Allan Poe, (1809-1849) , American short-story writer, poet, critic, and editor who is famous for his cultivation of mystery and the macabre.

Herbert Marshall McLuhan wrote in an essay entitled “Edgar Poe’s Tradition”: “While the New England dons primly turned the pages of Plato and Buddha beside a tea-cozy, and while Browning and Tennyson were creating a parochial fog for the English mind to relax in, Poe never lost contact with the terrible pathos of his time. Coevally with Baudelaire, and long before Conrad and Eliot, he explored the heart of darkness.”


The poem "Alone" was written by Poe when he was only 20 and describes his own inner torment at that young age. The poem was not published until 1875, long after his death.

This poem is written from the perspective of an adult who remembers his troubled childhood which made him gloomy. The speaker says that he has been different from others since his childhood and was not brought up in a typical family setting. He spent most of his time alone and could not get a chance to share his thoughts, feelings, and experiences with others. Therefore, his perception toward life and nature differs from the people who have enjoyed childhood. He adds, while others look up at the sky to see heaven and angels, he only sees darkness. In fact, the demons inside him never allow him to see, or sense anything positive. He fails to adore nature’s beauty. Although his life has been filled with good and bad events, yet it is still gloomy and dark due to his painful childhood.

Full Poem:
“Alone”
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 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—

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