Poetry Sunday

We're into the Christmas season, where - in better times - we celebrated peace on earth, good will toward men*, care for the stranger, and all that other schmaltzy stuff. But this year, Christmas is marked by a relative absence of good will, especially on the part of Der Furor's adoration society, and so I've decided to feature today a Yuletide poem more suited to the current political reality ...

Yule Horror**

by H. P. Lovecraft

There is snow on the ground, 

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 un-hallowed and old.

There is death in the clouds, 

There is fear in the night, 

For the dead in their shrouds 

Hail the sin'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 sick 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."

Have a good day and enjoy the rest of your weekend, and hang in there ... I'll get back to more seasonal thoughts in future posts.

Bilbo

* "Men" is used in its non gender-specific meaning, of course.

** This poem was first published in Weird Tales magazine in December 1926, and was later renamed "Festival."