The Enchanted Forest

The gnarled boughs hand darkling down, And biers sweep my knees; The moon is low, like a gold lamp, Behind the twisted trees. O dark and still are the wet fern And trees where no birds nest; What heed have I for night or day Who ride a livelong quest? There is no cockcrow in the dark, No bleat from a far fold, When the Forest Folk begin to stir Under the starlight cold. Rend your wild hair, you elfin things, That peep from bush and tree; I know what strangling arms you reach Athwart the dusk to me. Twist your fierce lips, you false fair things, I know what dance you tread To what drear tune 'neath the cold moon O' nights wi' the sheeted dead.