There is very little that brings a fright
When I'm alone, at home, at night
Those things that creak, or scratch, or bump
Never cause my heart to thump
The footsteps heard, from up the stair
Turns me not, towards despair
Nor does the pattering thuds on floors
Nor does the opening of doors
That constant tapping on the window pane
Does not cause my fear to gain
The screech of chairs from another room
Fills me with no sense of doom
There is very little that causes fright
When I'm alone, at home, at night
But what never fails to stir up dread
Is when she whispers; 'Come up to bed'
'What Stirs Up Dread' Copyright © 2016 Matthew Densley
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I would like to translate this poem
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