That angry grove in th'ancient wood,
With primal oak-trunks girded 'round -
Devoid of man and beast it stood
With rampant grasses on the ground.
That witching grove in daylight shone,
With harsher light of younger sun.
By time abandoned, th'evil lawn
Does never feel the seasons run.
That self-same grove in moonlight glares.
Its stone of ancient sacrifice -
Like bone in grass the slab is bared;
Forgotten sorcery's device.
For in that grove, alone there claws
A twisted tree that rakes the night.
The frozen starlight never thaws
Those stony branches' twinèd height.
In silent grove's too-empty air
Unquiet spirits cluster thick.
On night's far side the ghastly fair
Rails loud against that monstrous trick -
Which in foul grove their lifeblood spilled,
A crimson flood on verdant floor.
The naked tree their nectar swilled
Up through its granite roots and pores.
Deserted grove, for ages left
Hidden deep in oak-wood's heart.
Yet will persist the reek of theft
Until the staring stars depart.
April 29, 2003
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