Page:Eight Harvard Poets.djvu/49

Saturnalia And a fierce free joy flares in the land. Men mutter runes in language dead, By night, with rumbling drum,

To earth's brood of souls of old, With covered heads and aspen wands, Mist-shrouded priests do ancient rites; The black ram's fleece is stained with blood. That steams, dull red on the frozen ground; And pale votaries shiver with the cold, 38