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 conquer'd 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 madden'd my brain—
With the fever called 'Living'
    That burn'd in my brain.

And O! 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 odour
    About it, of pansies—
A rosemary odour,
    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—
Drown'd in a bath
    Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kiss'd me,
    She fondly caress'd,
And then I fell gently
    To sleep on her breast—
Deeply to sleep
    From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguish'd,
    She cover'd me warm,
And she pray'd 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.

About the poet

Edgar Allan PoeEdgar Allan Poe

By the same poet
The Raven
To Helen
Annabel Lee
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