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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 un- hallowed and old.


There is death in the clouds, There is fear in the night, For the dead in their shrouds Hail the sin'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 entwined By mad mistletoes choke, For these pow'rs are the pow'rs of the dark, from the graves of the lost Druid-folk.

-H.P. Lovecraft

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