You, if you were
sensible,
When I
tell you the stars flash signals, each one
dreadful,
You would not turn and answer me
“The night is
wonderful.”
Even you, if you knew
How this darkness soaks me
through and through,
and infuses
Unholy fear in my vapour, you would pause to dis
—
tinguish
What hurts, from what
amuses.
For I tell you
Beneath this powerful tree, my
whole soul’s fluid
Oozes away from me as a sacrifice steam
At the knife of a
Druid.
Again I tell you, I bleed, I am
bound with withies,
My life runs out.
I
tell you my blood runs out on the floor of this oak,
Gout upon
gout.
Above me springs the blood-born
mistletoe
In the
shady smoke.
But who
are you, twittering to and fro
Beneath the oak?
What thing better are you, what
worse?
What have you
to do with the mysteries
Of this ancient place, of my ancient
curse?
What place
have you in my histories?