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.

Added: on July 1st, 2005 at 7:03 AM | Viewed: 11455 times | Comments (7)

Poet: Edgar Allan Poe
Poem: For Annie
Poem of the Day: Aug 8 2000

Are you looking for more information on this poem? Perhaps you are trying to analyze it? The poem, For Annie, has received 7 comments. Click here to read them, and perhaps post a comment of your own. Of course you can also always discuss poems by Edgar Allan Poe with others on the American Poems poetry forum!