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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 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. 

Fables & Tales Nonfiction Poetry Short Stories

Aesop Andersen, H.C. Dickinson, Emily Frost, Robert Grimm Henry, O Kipling, Rudyard Longfellow, Henry Poe, Edgar Allan Shakespeare, William Thoreau, Henry Twain, Mark Wilde, Oscar