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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 underground —
From a cavern not very far
Down underground.
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For a 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.
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