FOR ANNIEBy Edgar Allan PoeTHANK Heaven!

the crisis—The danger is past,And the lingering illnessIs over at last—And the fever called ‘Living’Is conquer’d at last.

Sadly, I knowI am shorn of my strength,And no muscle I moveAs I lie at full length:But no matter—I feelI am better at length.

And I rest so composedlyNow, in my bed,That any beholderMight 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 throbbingAt heart—ah, that horrible,Horrible throbbing!

The sickness—the nausea—The pitiless pain—Have ceased, with the feverThat madden’d my brain—With the fever called ‘Living’That burn’d in my brain.

And O!

of all torturesThat torture the worstHas abated—the terribleTorture of thirstFor the naphthaline riverOf Passion accurst—I have drunk of a waterThat quenches all thirst: —Of a water that flows,With a lullaby sound,From a spring but a very fewFeet under ground—From a cavern not very farDown under ground.

And ah!

let it neverBe foolishly saidThat my room it is gloomy,And narrow my bed;For man never sleptIn a different bed—And, to sleep, you must slumberIn just such a bed.

My tantalized spiritHere blandly reposes,Forgetting, or neverRegretting its roses—Its old agitationsOf myrtles and roses:For now, while so quietlyLying, it fanciesA holier odourAbout it, of pansies—A rosemary odour,Commingled with pansies—With rue and the beautifulPuritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,Bathing in manyA dream of the truthAnd the beauty of Annie—Drown’d in a bathOf the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kiss’d me,She fondly caress’d,And then I fell gentlyTo sleep on her breast—Deeply to sleepFrom the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguish’d,She cover’d me warm,And she pray’d to the angelsTo keep me from harm—To the queen of the angelsTo 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 brighterThan all of the manyStars in the sky,For it sparkles with Annie—It glows with the lightOf the love of my Annie—With the thought of the lightOf the eyes of my Annie.

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