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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.

by Edgar Allan Poe
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