Edgar Allan Poe

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FOR ANNIE

Thank Heaven! the crisis --

    The danger is past, And the lingering illness

    Is over at last -- And the fever called "Living"

    Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know

    I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move

    As I lie at full length -- But no matter! -- I feel

    I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,

    Now, in my bed, That any beholder

    Might fancy me dead -- Might start at beholding me,

    Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,

    The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now,

    With that horrible throbbing At heart: -- ah, that horrible,

    Horrible throbbing!

The sickness -- the nausea --

    The pitiless pain -- Have ceased, with the fever

    That maddened my brain -- With the fever called "Living"

    That burned in my brain.

And oh! of all tortures

    That torture the worst Has abated -- the terrible

    Torture of thirst For the naphthaline river

    Of Passion accurst: -- I have drank of a water

    That quenches all thirst: --

Of a water that flows,

    With a lullaby sound, From a spring but a very few

    Feet under ground -- From a cavern not very far

    Down under ground.

And ah! let it never

    Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy

    And narrow my bed; For man never slept

    In a different bed -- And, to sleep, you must slumber

    In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit

    Here blandly reposes, Forgetting, or never

    Regretting its roses -- Its old agitations

    Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly

    Lying, it fancies A holier odor

    About it, of pansies -- A rosemary odor,

    Commingled with pansies -- With rue and the beautiful

    Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,

    Bathing in many A dream of the truth

    And the beauty of Annie -- Drowned in a bath

    Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,

    She fondly caressed, And then I fell gently

    To sleep on her breast -- Deeply to sleep

    From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,

    She covered me warm, And she prayed to the angels

    To keep me from harm -- To the queen of the angels

    To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly,

    Now in my bed, (Knowing her love)

    That you fancy me dead -- And I rest so contentedly,

    Now in my bed, (With her love at my breast)

    That you fancy me dead -- That you shudder to look at me,

    Thinking me dead: --

But my heart it is brighter

    Than all of the many Stars in the sky,

    For it sparkles with Annie -- It glows with the light

    Of the love of my Annie -- With the thought of the light

    Of the eyes of my Annie.

1849.

~~~ End of Text ~~~

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