It was a virtue not to stay,

To go my headstrong and heroic way

Seeking her out at the volcano's head,

Among pack ice, or where the track had faded

Beyond the cavern of the seven sleepers

Whose broad high brow was white as any leper's,

Whose eyes were blue,  with rowan-berry lips,

With hair curled honey-coloured to white hips.


Green sap of Spring in the young wood a_stir

Will celebrate the Mountain Mother,

And every song-bird shout awhile for her.

But I am gifted, even in November,

Rawest of seasons, with so huge a sense

Of  her nakedly worn magnificence

I forget cruelty and past betrayal,

Careless of where the next bright bolt may fall.



Robert Graves:  “The White Goddess”