Edgar Allan Poe to Anson G. Chester — April 1, 1849

Edgar Allan Poe to Anson G. Chester — April 1, 1849 Independent reading of the letter and accompanying manuscript of “For Annie.” Source: Lilly Library, Indiana University, American Literature manuscripts. Checked against the three manuscript faces reproduced as illustrations 52–54 in The Collected Letters of Edgar Allan Poe (2008), made available by the Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore. The modern edition's transcription, commentary and captions are not reproduced here. Its photographs are retained privately for the reading check, not offered as archive downloads. The three written faces are represented below. The address side has not been acquired and is not transcribed. Superscripts are flattened; ornamental rules, indentation and column layout are simplified. This is a readable transcription, not a diplomatic edition or a claim to ownership of the original manuscript. The poem's wording follows this particular copy, including “truth,” “languid” and “angels.” These differ from other published texts. [Manuscript face 1: letter, followed by the beginning of the poem] Fordham — Ap. 1 — 49. My Dear Sir, In reply to your very flattering request for an autograph poem, I have the honor of copying for you the subjoined lines just writ. As they will be sold to one of our periodicals, may I beg of you not to let them pass out of your possession until published? Very respectfully, Yr. Ob. St. Edgar A Poe. A. G. Chester Esq. 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. 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 The 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. [Manuscript face 2] 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, I fancy A holier odor about me, Of pansy — A rosemary odor Commingled with pansy — With rue and the languid Puritan pansy. And so I lie tranquilly, 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. [Manuscript face 3] 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 of 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.