Harsh is the call of the wind to my ears,
Here on the marshes;
Shrill are the screams that my aching soul hears....
Under the larches
Shadows are creeping with velvet soft feet--
And in the darkness I hear my heart beat--
Are they advancing or do they retreat?
Here on the marshes.
Thick is the fog that hangs heavy and dead
Over the marshes;
Dull are my eyes, and my feet are like lead,
And my throat parches.
Bright gleams a torch on a body of brown,
Slinking away with a feathery crown;
Down on my knees I am crouching--far down--
Still are the marshes.
Dawn faintly glimmers--a bird note is rising
Shrill on the marshes;
Is it a signal that sounds up, surprising,
Where the surf washes?
Ah! for a mortal to whom I could speak,
If I could whisper a word--or could shriek....
God! they are coming--I hear the steps creak! Death on the marshes.