I stoop and tear the sandals from my feet
While the green fires glimmer in the gloom;
The hot roar of madness
Swells my veins with gladness;
I smell the rotting wood-stuff
And the drift of willow-bloom,
And the moon's wet face
Lifts above the place
Till gaunt and black the shadows are crowding close for room.
The alder thickets brush against my limbs;
The heavy tramp of water shakes the night;
I cross the naked hills,
Where the thin dawn lifts and fills;
All the black woods wail behind me—
They cannot stay my flight
Till the sun's red stain
Dyes the world again
And winds beyond the heavens are dancing in the light.