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.