by: Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

      hank 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.




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