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A songagram
by Tony Crafter
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Alone (Edgar Allan Poe)

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by Edgar Allan 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.
(From A Fund Of Love)

Our childhood is a short-term loan,
To be repaid when we have grown;
Our children are a moment's gift,
That we may one day set adrift
On life's harsh seas in stormy weather,
With no connective link or tether.
And we, the lighthouse lamp that burns,
For them to find when they return.
The child that left might yet come home,
But not for good, and just on loan.

Their lives flash by, and soon do ours,
And memory dims, like fading flowers;
Fond moments of their childhood fun
Then mark fond moments of our own.
Perhaps, some sunny Mother's Day,
If they've a mind to come my way,
They'll stop a moment, one last time,
To linger, look and find this line
Above my grave, carved in the stone:
'Life Is But A Short-Term Loan'.

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