Page:Eight Harvard Poets.djvu/96

 QUI SUB LUNA ERRANT

N a strange land they dwell, too far away From sunlight and the common mirth of men Ever to come within our casual ken. We see them not, but if by chance we stray Down cypress aisles when the wan summer day Draws to a thin and sickly close, we hear Murmur of mad speech by some watery weir Or languid laughter and faint sound of play.

They never see the dawn; like the pale moths That haunt lugubrious shadows of dim trees They celebrate their lunar mysteries At woodland shrines, where with green thyrsus rods And weak limbs wrapped in silken sensuous cloths They chant the names of their dead pagan gods. 85