Page:The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (Volume II).djvu/76

Rh 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 napthaline 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: