How should I presume?

Lower than a century ago
Fly the storks these days
Over marshes full of feathers
White feathers withered and silent
Nature has not come to a result
Being taken over by hobgoblins
Who tame her to their lusting wishes

Ladies and gentlemen
My fear will pick you up
Being stuck up into your bones
It will change your shapes
And shivers will take you
There where white tins
Already contain your souls!