Festival

There is snow on the ground, And the valleys are cold, And a midnight profound Blackly squats o'er the wold; But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of feastings unhallowed and old. There is death in the clouds, There is fear in the night, For the dead in their shrouds Hail the sun's turning flight. And chant wild in the woods as they dance round a Yule-altar fungous and white. To no gale of Earth's kind Sways the forest of oak, Where the thick boughs entwined By mad mistletoes choke, For these pow'rs are the pow'rs 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.