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Classic  Poem  –  Alone  by  Edgar  Allen  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  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  view.     My  version     Why  do  people  want  to  be  in     Somebody's  company,  what     Is  so  bad  about  being  alone,     Or  not  fitting  in?  The  public     Has  a  very  odd  perception  that     You  need  to  fit  in  or  be   Abandoned  by  your  kind.     What  about  the  people  who  keep  to     Themselves?  Are  they  exempt  from     The  unwritten  rules  of  our  life     And  society  or  look  at  them  as  aliens.     If  you  do  not  fit  in,  or  are   In  a  group,  who  will  come  to  your     rescue  when  you  need  help  or  who     will  come  to  your  funeral?  You   are  alone  and  out  in  the  big,   bad  world  by  yourself  so  one  should    always  have  another  by  their     side  for  whatever  reason.  With-­‐  


out  a  trusty  companion  one   could  be  lost  with  the  slightest  slip         Modern  Poem  –  The  Snow  man  by  Wallace  Stevens           The Snow Man     The  time  of  year  that  my  mood     One must have a mind of winter Picks  up,  when  I  can  flourish  and   To regard the frost and the boughs Become  alive,  for  Winter  is  life.   Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;   Constantly  standing  still,  not  due  to   And have been cold a long time Want  but  I  simply  cannot.  I  would  love   To behold the junipers shagged with To  experience  the  surroundings,   ice, The spruces rough in the distant   glitter   In  my  current  form,  since  the  bright   Of the January sun; and not to think Sun  melts  my  heart,  and  I  feel  around   Of any misery in the sound of the wind, Not  myself  but  of  something  immense   In the sound of a few leaves,   Sad,  when  I  go  only  to  hope  to     Which is the sound of the land Be  tall  and  mighty  again,  with  human   Full of the same wind help,  only  torn  by  my  mother  herself   That is blowing in the same bare place   If  she  cared  so  much,  she  would  put   For the listener, who listens in the snow, me  in  a  better  home,  come  to  find  out  I   And, nothing himself, beholds was  put  in  my  place,  where  I  belong   Nothing that is not there and the   nothing that is.

   


Classic and Modern Poem