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 ГовардФиллипсЛавкрафт
 FESTIVAL




   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.