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 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.