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.