by Scott Cunningham Beyond the town, beneath the moon, Beside the standing stone, There lies a woman, fair of faith. We call the witch alone. She sings to sun and moon and stars, And gathers herbs and weeds, With which she fasions ancient charms, And other magick deeds. She worships not at altars built, By hands of mortal men, But in the misty glade, Beyond the farthest glen. What need has she of flashing swords, Of crystals glowing bright, That grace the Wiccan rite? Her tools are fashioned from the earth, And wind and fire and rain, Her rites are dances wild and free, That call the Gods amain. When spring and summer pass to fall, And twilight fills her eyes, She'll lie upon the browning grass, And smile as she dies. For though She leaves her mortal shell, Of flesh and blood and bone, She knows she does not die but lives, On, as the Witch Alone........ |
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