FOR ANNIE - 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 napthaline 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 of 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."