Dorothee
Germany
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The following is a poem about how creepy a swamp really can be at night:
The Little Lad in the Fen (by Annette von Droste-Hülshoff)
How creepy it is to cross through the fen When it’s billowing with haze, Mists writhing like phantoms, Bine weaving through bushes; Up squirts a springlet beneath every step When hissing and singing come from the gap. How eerie it is to cross through the fen When the reed bank rustles in the breeze. The shivering child holds on to his school book And runs as if being hunted. The wind blusters hollow across the flat land. What’s rattling over there in the hedge? That is the ghostly peat cutter Who drinks away his master’s best peat blocks Whoo, whoo sounds forth, like an insane cow! The little boy ducks down fearfully. Gnarled tree stumps stare out from the bank, The pine tree’s nodding uncannily, The lad runs on, straining his ears, On among giant stalks like spears; And how it trickles and whishes therein! That is the Sunday spinstress, It is Spinning Leonore, bound by a curse, Winding her reel among the reeds! Onward, onward, ever at the run; Onward, as though devils were after him. It’s bubbling up in front of his feet, It’s squeaking under his soles Like a ghostly melody. That is the headless, untrustworthy violin man, It is Knauf that thieving fiddler Who stole the farthing at the wedding. Then the fen burst open, a sigh comes forth Out of the gaping hollow. Woe, woe. Margreth, the lost soul, calls out “Oh, oh – my poor soul!” The boy jumps like a wounded deer. Were his guardian angel not close by, In the smouldering fen a digger would later find His little bones bleaching there. Gradually now, the ground becomes firm And over there, next to the willow, So homely twinkles the lamp. The boy stands at the edge; He draws a deep breath and takes one more nervous look at the fen. Indeed, in the reeds it was dreadful; How creepy it was in the fen!
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