For Annie

by Edgar Allan Poe

Published 1849


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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. 


For Annie,” one of many poems by Edgar Allan Poe, was first published in 1849.


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