OUTLAWS.

Owls: they whinney down the night,

Bats go zigzag by.

Ambushed in shadow out of sight

The outlaws lie.

Old gods, shrunk to shadows, there

In the wet woods they lurk,

Greedy of human stuff to snare

In webs of murk.

Look up, else your eye must drown

In a moving sea of black

Between the tree-tops, upside down

Goes the sky-track.

Look up, else your feet will stray

Towards that dim ambuscade,

Where spider-like they catch their prey

In nets of shade.

For though creeds whirl away in dust,

Faith fails and men forget,

These aged gods of fright and lust

Cling to life yet.

Old gods almost dead, malign,

Starved of their ancient dues,

Incense and fruit, fire, blood and wine

And an unclean muse.

Banished to woods and a sickly moon,

Shrunk to mere bogey things,

Who spoke with thunder once at noon

To prostrate kings.

With thunder from an open sky

To peasant, tyrant, priest,

Bowing in fear with a dazzled eye

Towards the East.

Proud gods, humbled, sunk so low,

Living with ghosts and ghouls,

And ghosts of ghosts and last year's snow

And dead toadstools.