YULE
Behold! in the night there was storm; and the rushing of snow and of sleet;
And the boom of the sea and the moaning of pines in its desolate beat.
And the hall of fierce Erick of Sogn with the clamor of wassail was filled,
With the clash of great beakers of gold and the reek of the ale that was spilled.
For the Yule was upon them, the Yule; and they quaffed as from skulls of the slain,
And shouted loud oaths in hoarse wit, and long quaffing swore laughing again.
Unharnessed from each shaggy throat, that was hot with brute lust and with drink,
Each burly wild skin and barbaric tossed, rent from the gold of its link.