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Text: Edgar Allan Poe, "For Annie" (A), the Flag of Our Union (Boston), July 7, 1849, vol. 4, no. 17, p. 2, col. 6

[page 2, top of column 6:]

[Written for The Flag of our Union.]
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 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.
The moaning and groaning,
    The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now, and the
    Horrible throbbing
At heart: — O, that horrible,
    Horrible throbbing!
And ah! of all tortures,
    That torture the worst
Has abated — the terrible
    Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river
    Of glory accurst: —
I have drank of a water
    That quenches all thirst: —
Of a water that flows,
    With a lullaby sound,
From a fountain, a very few
    Feet underground —
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 love
    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 of the heaven,
    For it sparkles with Annie —
It glows with the fire
    Of the love of my Annie —
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.


Annie was Nancy Locke Heywood Richmond. Poe and her closest friends always called her Annie, a name she adopted legally after her husband's death in 1873.

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