Ворон

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 napthaline 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 tantalised 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 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 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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