Sleepy Hollow Poem by Isadora Quagmire

When waning moons through maples creep,
 And north winds sigh like souls unblessed,
The Hollow folds itself in sleep,
 Yet none may find a dream of rest.
For through that vale, by midnight's lane,
 Still rides a name the years retain—
The schoolmaster, both lean and vain,
 Poor trembling Ichabod Crane.
He came from towns of sterner hue,
 Where learning's yoke was worn with pride;
Yet fancied he the rustic view,
 And sought a wealthy farmer's bride.
Katrina—fair, with eyes of flame,
 Whose laughter teased and mocked his aim—
He dreamt of her, of gold, of fame,
 And supped on envy's bitter side.
He dwelt among the village folk,
 And told them tales by hearth and flame,
Of goblins, sprites, and vengeance woke,
 Yet laughed to show his scorn of same.
But when the night grew still and stark,
 And branches scratched like bony claws,
He'd quicken pace beneath the dark,
 And whisper half-forgotten laws.
One eve, the feast was loud and long—
 At Baltus Van Tassel's festal board—
The cider flowed, the fiddles' song
 Made maid and suitor dance accord.
Brom Bones, broad-shouldered, bold, and sly,
 Cast glances sharp as whetted sword;
While Ichabod, with foolish eye,
 Dreamed wealth would be his sweet reward.
But envy laughed and shadows fell,
 And Brom told tales of old and dread—
How on this road, by charm and spell,
 Rides forth a horseman—without head.
A Hessian ghost of war long past,
 Who seeks each year his missing bone;
At midnight's toll, he gallops fast,
 And claims the night for his alone.
Then Ichabod, through forest dim,
 Took leave beneath the hollow skies;
The moon looked down, pale-faced and grim,
 A watcher with a corpse's eyes.
Each leaf that stirred, each whisper low,
 Did quake his heart and chill his vein;
He thought he heard the river's flow
 Speak words—his name—again, again.
The bridge lay near—the church beyond—
 Its shadow promised holy ground;
But in the mist, a sound grew fond—
 A pounding—deep—a hoof's dread sound!
He turned, and lo! in black array,
 A monstrous steed, of spectral breed!
No head upon its rider lay—
 Save one of flame and wicked deed.
Through Sleepy Hollow's winding course
 They thundered, wild as storm and pain;
The teacher screamed, the ghastly horse
 Breathed smoke like Satan's own domain.
He reached the bridge—his final plea—
 The fiend rose high, his laughter shrill;
Then whirled his burning head, to see
 It burst upon the Silent Hill.
At dawn, the mare returned alone,
 With saddle rent and stirrup torn;
Beside the brook, a pumpkin shone,
 Its grin both mocking and forlorn.
And none have found the schoolman thin—
 Though whispers say, when fogs enchain,
You'll hear a voice cry deep within—
 "Beware the Hollow… and Ichabod Crane."