Text: Edgar Allan Poe, “For Annie” (Text-02a), the Flag of Our Union (Boston, MA), April 28, 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.


[S:1 - FOU, 1849, LOC] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - Works - Poems - For Annie (Text-02a)