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 ceases 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 napthatline 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 might fancy me dead—
And I rest so contentedly,
Now, in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)
That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead:-

But my heart it is brighter
Then all of the many
Stars of the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie—
If glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie—
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.