There is snow on the ground, <br />And the valleys are cold, <br />And a midnight profound <br />Blackly squats o'er the wold; <br />But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of <br />feastings unhallowed and old. <br /> <br />There is death in the clouds, <br />There is fear in the night, <br />For the dead in their shrouds <br />Hail the sun's turning flight. <br />And chant wild in the woods as they dance <br />round a Yule-altar fungous and white. <br /> <br />To no gale of Earth's kind <br />Sways the forest of oak, <br />Where the thick boughs entwined <br />By mad mistletoes choke, <br />For these pow'rs are the pow'rs of the dark, <br />from the graves of the lost Druid-folk. <br /> <br />And mayst thou to such deeds <br />Be an abbot and priest, <br />Singing cannibal greeds <br />At each devil-wrought feast, <br />And to all the incredulous world <br />shewing dimly the sign of the beast.<br /><br />Howard Phillips Lovecraft<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/festival-3/
