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For Annie
By 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 drank 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

          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.
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