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 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.

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.