Edgar alan poe..was a lonely troubled man..and that made his art flow..look how lonely he was..can you feel his lonliness?!


From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seenآ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ 
As others saw — I could not bring

My passions from a common spring —آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ آ 
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 —


11 thoughts on “Alone…

  1. Edgar Allan Poe … a real poor guy. He was an orphan at the age of three and became only fourty years old – finally died as consequence of alcohol-abuse. He lived a very unhappy and yes, lonely life.
    Loneliness – that is the biggest and most tragic social problem here in the West – and getting worse. Old people are isolated., lonely and even the younger – loneliness, INNER loneliness is widest-spread. It sometimes takes only a smile to make someone else’s day .. to help him climb the ladder a bit – and yet, so many forget it and are ignorant.
    BE HAPPY this problem is less crucial in your culture where at least the old people are not left alone … it’s sad here, really sad.


  2. Asalam 3alaykom,
    Yes karin,my dear he had a hard life..
    lonliness is the worst feeling ever..mat allah have mercy on us and we would never feel it..
    one have a million people around him and yet he dies from within..but i think he wrote that poem beautifully..
    thanks so much for sweet:)


  3. Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
    assalamu alaikum

    I have a book of First World War poems written by soldiers (mostly British) on the front. Here is one of my favorites:

    On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
    Remembering again that I shall die
    And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks
    For washing me cleaner than I have been
    Since I was born into this solitude.
    Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:
    But here I pray that none whom once I loved
    Is dying tonight or lying still awake
    Solitary, listening to the rain,
    Either in pain or thus in sympathy
    Helpless among the living and the dead,
    Like a cold water among broken reeds,
    Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff,
    Like me who have no love which this wild rain
    Has not dissolved except the love of death,
    If love it be for what is perfect and
    Cannot, the tempest tells me,


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