was a virtue not to stay,
go my headstrong and heroic way
her out at the volcano's head,
pack ice, or where the track had faded
the cavern of the seven sleepers
broad high brow was white as any leper's,
eyes were blue, with rowan-berry lips,
hair curled honey-coloured to white hips.
sap of Spring in the young wood a_stir
celebrate the Mountain Mother,
every song-bird shout awhile for her.
But I am gifted, even in November,
of seasons, with so huge a sense
her nakedly worn magnificence
forget cruelty and past betrayal,
of where the next bright bolt may fall.
Graves: “The White Goddess”