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[Written for The Flag of our Union.]
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BY EDGAR A. POE.
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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 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.
The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now, and the
Horrible throbbing
At heart: — O, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!
And ah! of all tortures,
That torture the worst,
Has abated — the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river
Of glory accurst: —
I have drank of a water
That quenches all thirst.
Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a fountain, a very few
Feet underground —
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 love
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 heaven,
For it sparkles with Annie —
It glows with the fire
Of the love of my Annie —
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
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Notes:
Annie was Nancy Locke Heywood Richmond. Poe and her closest friends always called her Annie, a name she adopted legally after her husband's death in 1873.
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[S:1 - FOU, 1849, LOC] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - Works - Poems - For Annie (Text-02a)