For Annie

by Edgar Allan Poe

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.