Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE BOY ON THE MOOR, by ANNETTE ELISABETH VON DROSTE-HULSHOFF First Line: Tis an eerie thing o'er the moor to fare Last Line: Ah, that was a place to dread, o! Alternate Author Name(s): Droste-hulshoff, Annette Von Subject(s): Moors (land) | ||||||||
'TIS an eerie thing o'er the moor to fare When the eddies of peat-smoke justle, When the wraiths of mist whirl here and there And wind-blown tendrils tussle, When every step starts a hidden spring And the trodden moss-tufts hiss and sing 'Tis an eerie thing o'er the moor to fare When the tangled reed-beds rustle. The child with his primer sets out alone And speeds as if he were hunted, The wind goes by with a hollow moan There's a noise in the hedge-row stunted. 'Tis the turf-digger's ghost, near-by he dwells, And for drink his master's turf he sells. "Whoo! whoo!" comes a sound like a stray cow's groan; The poor boy's courage is daunted. Then stumps loom up beside the ditch, Uncannily nod the the bushes, The boy running on, each nerve a-twitch, Through a jungle of spear-grass pushes. And where it trickles and crackles apace Is the Spinner's unholy hiding-place, The home of the cursèd Spinning-witch Who turns her wheel 'mid the rushes. On, ever on, goes the fearsome rout, In pursuit through that region fenny, At each wild stride the bubbles burst out, And the sounds from beneath are many. Until at length from the midst of the din Comes the squeak of a spectral violin, That must be the rascally fiddler lout Who ran off with the bridal penny! The turf splits open, and from the hole Bursts forth an unhappy sighing, "Alas, alas, for my wretched soul!" 'Tis poor damned Margaret crying! The lad he leaps like a wounded deer, And were not his guardian angel near Some digger might find in a marshy knoll Where his little bleached bones were lying. But the ground grows firmer beneath his feet, And there from over the meadow A lamp is flickering homely-sweet; The boy at the edge of the shadow Looks back as he pauses to take his breath, And in his glance is the fear of death. 'Twas eerie there 'mid the sedge and peat, Ah, that was a place to dread, O! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SPANISH GYPSY: BOOK 3 by MARY ANN EVANS THE SPANISH GYPSY: BOOK 4 by MARY ANN EVANS GAULZERY (GALSWORTHY) MOOR by JOHN GALSWORTHY ON MARTOCK MOOR by THOMAS HARDY TO MY CHILDREN: 5. ON THE MOOR by DOLLIE CAROLINE MAITLAND RADFORD THE LOVER'S ROCK by ROBERT SOUTHEY ON THE HEATH by ARTHUR WILLIAM SYMONS ON THE TOWER by ANNETTE ELISABETH VON DROSTE-HULSHOFF PENTECOST by ANNETTE ELISABETH VON DROSTE-HULSHOFF THE DESOLATE HOUSE by ANNETTE ELISABETH VON DROSTE-HULSHOFF THE HOUSE IN THE HEATH by ANNETTE ELISABETH VON DROSTE-HULSHOFF |
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