There is snow on the ground,
And the valleys are cold,
And a midnight profound
Blackly squats o'er the wold;
But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of feastings un-hallowed and old.

There is death in the clouds,
There is fear in the night,
For the dead in their shrouds
Hail the sin's turning flight.
And chant wild in the woods as they dance round a Yule- altar fungous and white.

To no gale of Earth's kind
Sways the forest of oak,
Where the sick boughs entwined
By mad mistletoes choke,
For these pow'rs are the pow'rs of the dark, from the graves of the lost Druid-folk.

I’m slipping, sliding,
right into the dark.
I’m twisting, turning,
falling apart.

I’m flying, soaring,
up in the clouds.
I’m running, sprinting
across the grounds.

I’m hiding, shrinking,
under the stairs.
I’m searching, seeking,
looking nowhere.

I’m laughing, joking,
having some fun.
I’m talking, shouting,
telling no one.

I’m crying, sobbing,
drying my tears.
I’m leaping, jumping,
crashing down here.

I’m dying, living,
both at once.
I’m thinking, learning,
what the world wants.

I’m sleeping, dreaming,
all in my head.
I’m waking, blinking
here in my bed.