By C. EDGAR BOLEN
The jellied night has oozed its miry black
From out the hills to fill the valley floor.
Atop the ragged hills the torn cloud-wrack
Is lightning-limned into a hellish door.
A gust of wind across the sky is hurled—
The gods of old are loosed upon the world.
Age-old, the blood-lust wells within my throat;
Tensely I wait, and feel my body shrink;
My hairless hide becomes a furry coat.
Blood-hungry, through the opened door I slink;
I raise my head and howl in horrid glee—
And from the plain a howl comes back to me.