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 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.
——
The moaning and groaning —
The sighing and sobbing —
Are quieted now; with
The horrible throbbing
At heart: — oh, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!
——
And ah, of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated — the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the napthaline river
Of Glory 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, I fancy
A holier odor about me,
of pansy —
A rosemary odor
Commingled with pansy —
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansy.
——
And so I lie happily
Bathing in many
A dream of the love
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 of the Heaven — for it
Sparkles with Annie —
It glows with the thought
Of the love of my Annie —
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
Edgar Allan Poe
Originally Published in 1849