It reminds me a bit of the poem that opens Doreen Valiente's book Natural Magic:
Here and now are the Mysteries. Out of no stored and storied past Of things long lost; But the breathing moment of time. Out of no twilight But that which falls upon the hills this night. The old trees partake of them, And the voices of the grass; The ghost-white blossomed elders, And the first clouded glow Of the rising moon. If we can hear, If we can see, Out of no buried past they come; But from the fields of our own home Is reaped the grain That makes the bread of their feast. Out of the flowers of every summer Flows the honey of their mead. Look, between the stones is a blade of grass; And all the rites of the high Mysteries, And the runes of all witcheries Are written upon it.
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It reminds me a bit of the poem that opens Doreen Valiente's book Natural Magic:
Here and now are the Mysteries.
Out of no stored and storied past
Of things long lost;
But the breathing moment of time.
Out of no twilight
But that which falls upon the hills this night.
The old trees partake of them,
And the voices of the grass;
The ghost-white blossomed elders,
And the first clouded glow
Of the rising moon.
If we can hear,
If we can see,
Out of no buried past they come;
But from the fields of our own home
Is reaped the grain
That makes the bread of their feast.
Out of the flowers of every summer
Flows the honey of their mead.
Look, between the stones is a blade of grass;
And all the rites of the high Mysteries,
And the runes of all witcheries
Are written upon it.
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