Metzengerstein
I think that I was only nine
When first I met Metzengerstein,
Too young to know his foul intent,
Too young, too pure, too innocent.
He lived in some old ruined church
With gothic columns, vaulted arch,
That sheltered him from thundered skies,
And hid, in gloom, his enterprise.
For from that church were mutterings
On windy nights, such utterings
As screams, while weird unholy moans
Disturbed the graveyard's scattered bones.
He wore a cape that wrapped him in
A hat, broad-brimmed, and black as sin,
His gaiters to the knee were brown
The boots he wore, they made no sound.
At night I'd see his shadow pass
Dark stained, upon my window glass
As stealthily he roamed abroad
While mist and fog obscured the road.
He came from some small German town,
My kindly father asked him round:
'We must be kind, and make no fuss,
But treat him just as one of us.'
Metzengerstein then came to call
And sat and stared - stared at us all,
My mother brought us cake and tea
And laughed, and smiled most happily.
She was so sweet, so fair of face
My father said: 'She lends us grace.'
She was much younger, then, than he,
He'd brought her from the old country.
But while she played the welcome host
Metzengerstein watched her the most,
His eyes burned fierce beneath thick brows
As once he'd spied on German fraus.
He came again, again and he
Ignored my father, ignored me,
But watched my mother's every move;
She danced, to see if he'd approve.
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poem by David Lewis Paget
Added by Poetry Lover
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