Beyond the town, beneath the moon
Beside the standing stone
There lives 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 fashions ancient charms And other magic 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
Of censors and of coloured cords
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....