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 awken,
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 wich blinds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled,
In it's autumn tint of gold,
From the lighting in the sky.