The Man Upon the Moor

Sitting in my study
Drawing upon a pipe of clay
Simply sitting, smoking softly
I endure the remaining day.
Harder still fell the rain
Against the glassless pane
Louder still was heard
The rapping, tapping of his cane

As I rose to bid him in
I reeled at the sight
He was already there
Beside my chair
And he brought with him the night

Sir, said he respectfully
If I may speak free
A scotch and smoke
In trade for tale
This night
I'd share with thee

His manner calm as he sat
Upon the moistened floor
And as he lit his pipe
I gazed out upon the moor
Not a word said he
For at least an hour more
Speak up my man, out with your tale
This I do implore
But when he spoke aloud
And ceased his muted way
His tale chilled both my bone and blood
And stole my breath away

Will he ever leave? The man upon the moor
Or will he, always be, rapping, tapping at my door

Joseph Craig Dobler, employed me but a year
I took his life, and then his wife
As my own to love so dear
But alas!? She knows the truth at last
It is so she screams
Dobler's ghost has come to her
He speaks into her dreams

Now his spirit shall haunt and spook, wherever I may be
Already twice this night, upon the moor was he
Such is how I came into your house so free
For when next he comes I'll surely die
But with sin confessed to thee

Will he ever leave? The man upon the moor
Or will he, always be, rapping, tapping at my door

The wind did gust and blow through the glassless pane
And it seemed we both could hear the rapping, tapping of a cane
The man stood up as if to leave but could not find his nerve
And as he looked into the night I watched his body swerve

Then we both grew chill as the knob into my dwelling turned
What demon from Hell, had arisen, its body blackened, burned
But the knob it stopped and then was heard upon the door so plain
Louder, louder came the rapping, tapping of his cane

No more, no more! He cried with palms upturned
I could not bear to see its face and body blackened, burned
The man turned in horror and fell out through the glassless pane
Nevermore to suffer the terrible tapping of the cane

Oh how I loathe, even now, the sound of rain upon the plain
For now I always seem to hear the rapping, tapping of a cane