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Festival [December 1925>
There is snow on the ground,
And the valleys are cold,
And a midnight profound
Blackly squats oer the wold;
But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of feastings unhallowd and old.
There is death in the clouds,
There is fear in the night,
For the dead in their shrouds
Hail the suns turning flight,
And chant wild in the woods as they dance round a Yule-altar fungous and white.
To no gale of earths kind
Sways the forest of oak,
Where the sick boughs entwind
By mad mistletoes choke,
For these powrs are the powrs of the dark, from the graves of the lost Druid-folk.
And mayst thou to such deeds
Be an abbot and priest,
Singing cannibal greeds
At each devil-wrought feast,
And to all the incredulous world shewing dimly the sign of the beast.
