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.

Poem by Edgar Allen Poe (1809 - 1849)

( ni som kan engelska bra, läs hans dikter )