And O, 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.
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