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.

This online collection of the Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe is part of the digital book collection at Book-Lover.com