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He might not sing so wildly well

A mortal melody, While a bolder note than this might swell

From my lyre within the sky.

TO

I Heed not that my earthly lot

Hath little of Earth in it;
That years of love have been forgot

In the hatred of a minute:
I mourn not that the desolate

Are happier, sweet, than I; But that you sorrow for my fate,

Who am a passer-by.

FOR ANNIE.

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.

in. And I rest so composedly,

Now, in my bed, That any beholder

Might fancy me dead— Might start at beholding me,

Thinking me dead.

IV.

The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,

Are quieted now,

With that horrible throbbing

At heart:—ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!

v.

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.

vi. 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:—

VII.

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.

VIII.

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.

XI.

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.

XII.

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.

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