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—

Poe, Edgar Allan. "“Alone”." Poetry Foundation. Poetry Foundation, n.d. Web. <https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/46477#poem>.

By good angels tenanted, 

Once a fair and stately palace— 

Radiant palace—reared its head. 

In the monarch Thought’s dominion, 

It stood there! 

Never seraph spread a pinion 

Over fabric half so fair! 

Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 

On its roof did float and flow 

(This—all this—was in the olden 

Time long ago) 

And every gentle air that dallied, 

In that sweet day, 

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 

A wingèd odor went away. 

Wanderers in that happy valley, 

Through two luminous windows, saw 

Spirits moving musically 

To a lute’s well-tunèd law, 

Round about a throne where, sitting, 

Porphyrogene! 

In state his glory well befitting, 

The ruler of the realm was seen. 

And all with pearl and ruby glowing 

Was the fair palace door, 

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing 

And sparkling evermore, 

A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty 

Was but to sing, 

In voices of surpassing beauty, 

The wit and wisdom of their king. 

But evil things, in robes of sorrow, 

Assailed the monarch’s high estate; 

(Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow 

Shall dawn upon him, desolate!) 

And round about his home the glory 

That blushed and bloomed 

Is but a dim-remembered story 

Of the old time entombed. 

And travellers, now, within that valley, 

Through the red-litten windows see 

Vast forms that move fantastically 

To a discordant melody; 

While, like a ghastly rapid river, 

Through the pale door 

A hideous throng rush out forever, 

And laugh—but smile no more.