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Robert Graves - OutlawsRobert Graves - Outlaws
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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.
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