Book Lover


by Edgar Allan Poe

Thank Heaven! the crisis --
The danger is past,

the lingering illness
Is over at last --
the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,

no muscle I move
As I lie at full length --
no matter! -- I feel
I am better at length.
I rest so composedly,
Now, in my bed,

That any beholder
Might fancy me dead --
Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.

moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing

At heart: -- ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!

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.

oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
abated -- the terrible
Torture of thirst
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.

ah! let it never
Be foolishly said

That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;

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 --

old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:
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.

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.

tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
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,

she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm --

To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.

I lie so composedly,
Now in my bed,

(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead --

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: --

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.

More Great Books and Authors to Explore!
Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar Allan Poe
William Hope Hodgson
William Hope Hodgson
Secret Hiding Places
Secret Hiding Places
Egyptian Book of the Dead
Egyptian Book of the Dead



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