Classic Poem

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.