FOR ANNIE THANK Heaven! the crisis- And the lingering illness And the fever called "Living" Sadly, I know I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move As I lie at full lengthBut 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 12 18 At heart-ah, that horrible, The sickness-the nausea- Have ceased, with the fever With the fever called "Living" That burned in my brain. And oh! of all tortures For the naphthaline river 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 24 30 38 44 And, to sleep, you must slumber In just such a bed. My tantalized spirit Its old agitations Of myrtles and roses: For now, while so quietly A holier odour About it, of pansies A rosemary odour, 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 AnnieDrowned 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. 52 58 66 72 78 1849. When the light was extinguished She covered me warm, To keep me from harm- To shield me from harm. And I lie so composedly, That you fancy me dead- Now, in my bed, (With her love at my breast) But my heart it is brighter For it sparkles with Annie- Of the love of my Annie- Edgar Allan Poe. 84 94 102 HAME, HAME, HAME HAME, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be→ When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree, The larks shall sing me hame in my ain countree; Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be- The green leaf o' loyaltie 's beginning for to fa', The bonnie White Rose it is withering an' a'; But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, An' green it will graw in my ain countree. O, there's nocht now frae ruin my country can save, 2 6 10 But the keys o' kind heaven, to open the grave; That a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie May rise again an' fight for their ain countree. 14 |