Country Sentiment

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.