I have not been as others were

A gloomy Friday afternoon is drawing to a close, and somehow that rack of clouds mounting in the northwest made me think of Poe. I'm not that familiar with anything other than “The Raven” with its croaking refrain of “nevermore,” but I thought this poem “Alone,” with its diabolic cloud, was suitably dour and askew. It touches on the threads of this week's conversation, and touches a chord with anyone who never quite felt they fitted in.

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 loved 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.