In a strange land they dwell, too far away

From sunlight and the common mirth of men

Ever to come within our casual ken.

We see them not, but if by chance we stray

Down cypress aisles when the wan summer day

Draws to a thin and sickly close, we hear

Murmur of mad speech by some watery weir

Or languid laughter and faint sound of play.

They never see the dawn; like the pale moths

That haunt lugubrious shadows of dim trees

They celebrate their lunar mysteries

At woodland shrines, where with green thyrsus rods

And weak limbs wrapped in silken sensuous cloths

They chant the names of their dead pagan gods.