Edgar Allan Poe

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 drunk 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.