For Annie. 
By Poe, Edgar Allan. 


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 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 - 
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.