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.

1849.

* * * * *

TO F—­

  Beloved! amid the earnest woes
    That crowd around my earthly path—­
  (Drear path, alas! where grows
  Not even one lonely rose)—­
    My soul at least a solace hath
  In dreams of thee, and therein knows
  An Eden of bland repose.