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FOR ANNIE 


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 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.

1849.

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