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 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 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 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.