Home     His Life     His Writings     His Creations     His Study     Popular Culture     Internet Resources     About This Site  

By H. P. Lovecraft

     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 unhallow’d 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 sick boughs entwin’d
          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.
  Return to “Festival” This page last revised 20 October 2009.
  Contact Us     Site Map     Search    
Copyright © 1998–2024 by Donovan K. Loucks. All Rights Reserved.