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.