From youth's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I couldn't bring
My interests from a typical spring.
From a similar source I have not taken
My distress; I couldn't stir
My heart to delight at a similar tone;
And all I adored, I cherished alone.
At that point in my youth, in the first light
Of a most stormy life-was drawn
From each profundity of good and sick
The riddle which ties me still:
From the downpour, or the wellspring,
From the red precipice of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its harvest time tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it cruised me flying by,
From the thunder and the tempest,
What's more, the cloud that took the shape
(At the point when whatever remains of Heaven was blue)
Of an evil spirit in my view.