By Johann Wulfgang von Goethe
Who is that riding so late through the dark and the wind?
It is the father with his child.
He has the boy snug in his arms, he holds him safely, he keeps him warm.
‘My son, why are you scared and hiding your face?’
‘Father, can’t you see the Erl-King, the Erl-King with crowns and robe?’
‘My son, it is a wisp of cloud.’
‘You, darling child, come, go with me! I will play lovely games with you;
there are heaps of bright flowers on the shore;
my mother has lots of golden clothes.’
‘Father, father, can’t you hear what the Erl-King whispers and promises me?’
‘Hush, don’t fret, my son, it is the wind rustling in the dry leaves.’
‘Pretty boy, will you come with me?
My daughters shall look after you nicely,
every night they will dance the round and will
rock and dance and sing you to sleep.’
‘Oh, father, oh father, can’t you see the Erl-King’s daughters over there at that dismal place?’
‘My son, my son, I can see it plain;
it is the old willows that gleam all grey.’
‘I love you, your beautiful shape excites me, and if you won’t
come willingly I will use force.’
‘Father, father, now he’s taking hold of me!
He has hurt me, the Erl-King has!’
The father is terrified, he rides fast,
he holds the groaning child in his arms,
it is all he can do to reach the farm;
in his arms the child was dead.

