Owls: they whinney down the night, <br />Bats go zigzag by. <br />Ambushed in shadow out of sight <br />The outlaws lie. <br /> <br />Old gods, shrunk to shadows, there <br />In the wet woods they lurk, <br />Greedy of human stuff to snare <br />In webs of murk. <br /> <br />Look up, else your eye must drown <br />In a moving sea of black <br />Between the tree-tops, upside down <br />Goes the sky-track. <br /> <br />Look up, else your feet will stray <br />Towards that dim ambuscade, <br />Where spider-like they catch their prey <br />In nets of shade. <br /> <br />For though creeds whirl away in dust, <br />Faith fails and men forget, <br />These aged gods of fright and lust <br />Cling to life yet. <br /> <br />Old gods almost dead, malign, <br />Starved of their ancient dues, <br />Incense and fruit, fire, blood and wine <br />And an unclean muse. <br /> <br />Banished to woods and a sickly moon, <br />Shrunk to mere bogey things, <br />Who spoke with thunder once at noon <br />To prostrate kings. <br /> <br />With thunder from an open sky <br />To peasant, tyrant, priest, <br />Bowing in fear with a dazzled eye <br />Towards the East. <br /> <br />Proud gods, humbled, sunk so low, <br />Living with ghosts and ghouls, <br />And ghosts of ghosts and last year's snow <br />And dead toadstools.<br /><br />Robert Graves<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/outlaws-3/
