Text: Edgar Allan Poe, “For Annie” (Text-06), the Oquawka Spectator (Oquawka, IL), May 16, 1849




We give below a most singularly conceived and oddly expressed poem. It is from the pen of the celebrated EDGAR A. POE — the only many who could have written it. There is no author who has a finer perception of the power of words than POE; and in addition to this delicate critical perception, he possesses a peculiarity of style which is Originiality itself, and one which no one has yet been able successfully to imintate. — Ed. Spectator.


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 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 of 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. This version of the poem closely follows the text as it appears in the Home Journal.


[S:1 - OS, 1849, microfilm] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - Works - Poems - For Annie (Text-06)