Edgar Allan Poe was born January 19, 1809 in Boston, Massachusetts. Even 203 years after his birth he is still a major influence on popular culture. Very few American writers are considered as influential and recognizable except for maybe a handful of writers including Mark Twain, Ernest Hemingway, and John Steinbeck. As a writer, teacher and lover of literature myself, I hold Poe above all others as both a major influence on my life, my writing and even my own personal philosophy. Having discovered Poe at an early age I was instantly captivated by both his stories and poems. His tales of the macabre, murder, and mystery appealed to me in a very strange way and I craved more. While many people may have their favorite story such as his most famous "The Tell-Tale Heart", "The Pit and the Pendulum", "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" and my personal favorite "The Black Cat" or even his poems like "A Dream Within A Dream", "The Bells" and the popular favorite "The Raven". One poem in particular, although short, appealed to me in a very special way as it reflected much of the same feelings I had felt growing up and even still feel today. The poem was "Alone"...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 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.
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.

"Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality." - Edgar Allan Poe
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