FOR ANNIE

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; with,
    The horrible throbbing
At heart: — oh, that horrible,
    Horrible throbbing!

And ah, of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated — the terrible
    Torture of thirst
For the napthaline 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 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, I fancy
A holier odor about me,
    of pansy —
A rosemary odor
    Commingled with pansies —
With rue and the beautiful
    Puritan pansy.

And so I lie 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 —
    Sparkles with Annie —
It glows with the thought
    Of the love of my Annie —
With the thought of the light
    Of the eyes of my Annie.

Do manuscrito de 23 de Março de 1849. "Annie" era como Poe chamava Nancy Locke Heywood Richmond. Nancy adotou o nome Annie oficialmente em 1873, após a morte de seu marido. Este poema era o que Poe considerava "as melhores linhas que já havia escrito".