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 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.
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