I sing the Goddess that is in all,
who gilds the wheat and sun born rye,
who, in dreaming plains we seek her call
In the greenwood, in the elms that fall
from sundered root to shaken ply
Her eternal verse brings breath to all
In the hornèd moons that nightly rule
her silver sisters dance the sky
and from dreaming plains attend her hall
Even in the sore and weeping gall
there is the ballad which brings release
there is the Goddess of great and small
In streams deep and mountains tall
from lover’s rage to felled knight’s wreath
Zoë sings her song, who is in all
Do not dread and shrink from winter’s pall
or of Luna’s chill bite be dismayed
For Zoë, dying, sleeps in snowy shawl
And Springs born to sing the gilded corn
so broken hearts are once more allayed
when mourning moons break to Sun of Morn
The Art of Storytelling 