The Wolves; They Sing.

Sing down the moon—O wolves of night,

            For thou knows not thy power.

Yet keep me up—O wolves of night,

            Past high moon and witching hour.

For thou hast made me one with land

     And glad am I

                   For sour

Are the berries on the bush.

Bring up the sun—O wolves of day,

            With thy chariots of graceful fire—

And make the light dance—O wolves of night,

            So the firedancers may tire

                                     As they wire with fire

                    For sour,

Are the berries on the bush.