Alone.

It seems as though the world is anxiously waiting for spring.

But I'm not quite ready to shed my layers and break down my walls of cozy quietness. 

So as New York is dawning on its first days of warm weather, I'll be biding my time in the depths of my blankets. 

While I was out with my parents today, I found this pocket-sized book of Edgar Allan Poe's poetry. 

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 loved 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 form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view-

"Alone" by Edgar Allan Poe

photos from Ffffound.