The clock speaks uneasily with the spider web on the wall,

The wind tears at the shutters,

My flickering candles are

Utterly dripped away and burned down,

No more wine in the glass,

Shadows in every corner

Whose long fingers stretch out toward me.

Just as in childhood

I close my eyes and breathe heavily,

Uneasiness clutches me cowering in my chair,

But no mother comes any more,

No kindly, scolding maid comes to me any more

So friendly, she charmed the horrifying world

Away from me and brightened me new with comfort.

I stay a long time, cowering in the darkness,

Hear the wind in the roof and crackling death in the walls,

Hear sand running behind the wallpaper,

Hear death spinning with his cold fingers;

I force my eyes open, I want to look and to grasp,

Look into the emptiness and hear him far off

Whistling lightly out of his mocking lips,

I edge into bed—I wish I could sleep!

But sleep has turned into a frightened bird,

Difficult to catch, to hold, yet easy to kill;

Whistling he flies off, his voice full of bitter disdain,

The rustling of a wing, away in the straining wind.