A Woodland Fawn, A Forest Monastic

Jeg reiser til mørkets dyp, der alt er dødt.

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Edgar Allan Poe

January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849

Today is the 202nd birthday of Edgar Allan Poe, great American writer and poet.

Let's raise our glass of cognac and lay a rose for the coolest drunk left in Baltimore!


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 --

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I <3 Edgar Allen Poe. I really need to go reread some of his stuff.

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