FOR ANNIEThank Heaven! the crisis—The danger is past,And the lingering illnessIs over at last—And the fever called “Living”Is conquered at last.Sadly, I knowI am shorn of my strength,And no muscle I moveAs I lie at full length—But no matter!—I feelI am better at length.And I rest so composedly,Now, in my bed,That any beholderMight 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 throbbingAt heart:—ah, that horrible,Horrible throbbing!The sickness—the nausea—The pitiless pain—Have ceased, with the feverThat maddened my brain—With the fever called “Living”That burned in my brain.And oh! of all torturesThattorture the worstHas abated—the terribleTorture of thirstFor the naphthaline riverOf Passion accurst:—I have drank of a waterThat quenches all thirst:—Of a water that flows,With a lullaby sound,From a spring but a very fewFeet under ground—From a cavern not very farDown under ground.And ah! let it neverBe foolishly saidThat my room it is gloomyAnd narrow my bed;For man never sleptIn a different bed—And, tosleep, you must slumberIn just such a bed.My tantalized spiritHere blandly reposes,Forgetting, or neverRegretting its roses—Its old agitationsOf myrtles and roses:For now, while so quietlyLying, it fanciesA holier odorAbout it, of pansies—A rosemary odor,Commingled with pansies—With rue and the beautifulPuritan pansies.And so it lies happily,Bathing in manyA dream of the truthAnd the beauty of Annie—Drowned in a bathOf the tresses of Annie.She tenderly kissed me,She fondly caressed,And then I fell gentlyTo sleep on her breast—Deeply to sleepFrom the heaven of her breast.When the light was extinguished,She covered me warm,And she prayed to the angelsTo keep me from harm—To the queen of the angelsTo 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 brighterThan all of the manyStars in the sky,For it sparkles with Annie—It glows with the lightOf the love of my Annie—With the thought of the lightOf the eyes of my Annie.1849.
Thank Heaven! the crisis—The danger is past,And the lingering illnessIs over at last—And the fever called “Living”Is conquered at last.Sadly, I knowI am shorn of my strength,And no muscle I moveAs I lie at full length—But no matter!—I feelI am better at length.And I rest so composedly,Now, in my bed,That any beholderMight 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 throbbingAt heart:—ah, that horrible,Horrible throbbing!The sickness—the nausea—The pitiless pain—Have ceased, with the feverThat maddened my brain—With the fever called “Living”That burned in my brain.And oh! of all torturesThattorture the worstHas abated—the terribleTorture of thirstFor the naphthaline riverOf Passion accurst:—I have drank of a waterThat quenches all thirst:—Of a water that flows,With a lullaby sound,From a spring but a very fewFeet under ground—From a cavern not very farDown under ground.And ah! let it neverBe foolishly saidThat my room it is gloomyAnd narrow my bed;For man never sleptIn a different bed—And, tosleep, you must slumberIn just such a bed.My tantalized spiritHere blandly reposes,Forgetting, or neverRegretting its roses—Its old agitationsOf myrtles and roses:For now, while so quietlyLying, it fanciesA holier odorAbout it, of pansies—A rosemary odor,Commingled with pansies—With rue and the beautifulPuritan pansies.And so it lies happily,Bathing in manyA dream of the truthAnd the beauty of Annie—Drowned in a bathOf the tresses of Annie.She tenderly kissed me,She fondly caressed,And then I fell gentlyTo sleep on her breast—Deeply to sleepFrom the heaven of her breast.When the light was extinguished,She covered me warm,And she prayed to the angelsTo keep me from harm—To the queen of the angelsTo 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 brighterThan all of the manyStars in the sky,For it sparkles with Annie—It glows with the lightOf the love of my Annie—With the thought of the lightOf the eyes of my Annie.
1849.