And start from sleep with bitter pangs
At the touch of the phantoms' viewless fangs.
Weary the mother and worn with strife,
Still she watches and fights for life.
But her hand is feeble, and weapon small:
One little needle against them all!
In evil hour the daughter fled
From her poor shelter and wretched bed.
Through the city's pitiless solitude
To the door of sin the wolves pursued.
Fierce the father and grim with want,
His heart is gnawed by the spectres gaunt.
Frenzied stealing forth by night,
With whetted knife, to the desperate fight,
He thought to strike the spectres dead,
But he smites his brother man instead.
O you that listen to stories told,
When hearths are cheery and nights are cold,
Weep no more at the tales you hear,
The danger is close and the wolves are near.