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Text: Edgar Allan Poe, "For Annie" (F), The Poets and Poetry of America (10th edition), 1850, p. 422, cols. 1-2

[page 422, top of column 1:]


THANK Heaven! the crisis —
    The danger, is past,
And the lingering illness
    Is over at last —
And the fever called "Living"
    Is conquer'd 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 madden'd my brain —
With the fever called "Living"
    That burn'd 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  [column 2:]
A holier odour
    About it, of pansies —
A rosemary odour,
    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 —
Drown'd in a bath
    Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kiss'd me,
    She fondly caress'd,
And then I fell gently
    To sleep on her breast —
Deeply to sleep
    From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguish'd,
    She cover'd me warm,
And she pray'd 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.


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.

[S:1 - PPA-10th, 1850] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - Works - Poems - For Annie (F)