Page:The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (Volume II).djvu/75

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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!