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 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.

From "Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allen Poe" 1849